


On My Heart (just like a tattoo)

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little angst, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, And Staying Sober, Bisexual Character, Bonding, Brotherly Bonding, Emotional bonding, Guide!John, Hurt/Comfort, Including Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mentions Of Previous Alcohol Abuse, Mentions of Previous Drug Use, Mentions of War, Mild Descriptions Of War, Minor Character Death, Sentinel!Sherlock, Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Slow Burn, Soldier!John, Spirit Animals, Tattoos, alternate universe - sherlock owns a tattoo parlour, and some fluff, descriptions of post-war injury, guide!Molly, mild PTSD, physical bonding, sentinel!Irene, some homophobia, spiritual bonding, with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-04 14:05:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1781743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is a fully trained guide ready to ship out to war when he gets talked into getting a tattoo with his sister. He has no idea that meeting tattoo artist and sentinel Sherlock Holmes will change his life. Years later, that meeting gives him a safety net to cling to when everything goes to shit and he gets shipped home from war broken, traumatized and uncertain whether he'll ever be ready or capable of bonding again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a commission for the lovely Aequorea Victoria, who basically asked me to surprise her with a story. I recently got my first tattoo, so to say my mind was a little preoccupied with the idea is an understatement. 
> 
> Should you ever choose to get a tattoo, please do your research and exercise caution - I will likely take liberties with the story that will not remain true to real life. For example, your tattoo should be personal and letting someone else select it for you is probably a bad idea.

All things considered, the outfit really wasn't that bad. John stood in front of his bed and surveyed the seemingly innocent-looking clothing with a critical eye, trying to find something that he could complain about. The trousers were a dark blue that looked black in some lights and were a little bit tighter than what he normally wore, but it wasn't worth picking a fight over. Even the shirt, which was a lighter shade of blue, was actually of a very nice quality, and so were the black leather shoes. He scowled, nearly ready to concede defeat... until he noticed something.

He pushed the right leg of the trousers aside. His mouth dropped open and a strangled squeak emerged at the sight of the bright blue pair of women's knickers underneath. They looked to be made of silk, with a little bit of white lace around the waistband. The price tags were still attached, so at least they were new, but that made him no less inclined to touch the silky scrap of fabric. He sputtered for several seconds before spinning around to face the door and shouting a very indignant, " _Harry_!"

"What?" His meddling sister poked her head into the room a moment later, all innocence. 

"Don't you pretend you don't know what," John snapped, pointing a finger at the offending underwear. "Why are your knickers on my bed?"

"They're not mine. Do you really think I'm big enough to wear that size?" Harry was frowning now, a dangerous glint in her eyes, and John floundered. He'd rather go off to war tomorrow than face Harry when she was in the middle of feeling like she was fat... particularly when the bout of insecurity would be his fault.

"I didn't look at them closely enough to be able to tell," he said quickly. 

"Oh. Why not?"

"Because they're knickers!"

"They're nice knickers," Harry countered, pushing her way into the room fully and reaching for them. She rubbed the material between her thumb and index finger and sighed. "God I love the feel of silk. There's really nothing else like it. I'm telling you, Johnny. To get a hot guy to come home with you tonight, all you need to do is wear these and let your target cop a feel. You'll have your pick of the litter."

John resisted the urge to palm his face just barely. "Harry, I don't want anyone to come home with me," he said wearily, wondering why he'd even bothered to open the door. Oh wait, that was right. He hadn't opened the door. Harry had stolen his key right after he moved into the flat and made herself what had to be several dozen copies, as no matter how many times he took a key back from her she always had one to spare. 

"Come on, you're going to war. Who knows when you'll have the chance for sex again?"

"No," John said, crossing his arms. Had it been anyone else, he might have been swayed into the idea of going to the pubs fairly easily. He did enjoy a good night out every now and then - as long as the knickers got tossed in the bin where they belonged, of course. But not with Harry. Being around alcohol was just too difficult for her right now, too liable to cause a backwards slide that could result in her ending up right where she'd started. He couldn't ask her to go to a pub and not drink, mostly because he didn't think she'd be capable of that.

Harry looked at his face and then pouted, idly twirling the knickers around her finger. "You're such a spoilsport, John, honestly. I try to do one nice thing for you -"

"You're trying to get me to dress up like a girl!"

"- and you act like it's the end of the world. Which, God, it's a pair of knickers not a corset and heels. And they did have those in your size, so just be grateful I restrained myself as much as I did."

John just stared at her.

She tried, and failed, not to snicker. "I need to get a decent camera for moments like this. The faces you make are just too priceless."

He rolled his eyes and snatched the knickers away from her with a rude sound. Only Harry would be willing to spend nearly twenty pounds on a joke. He threw them in the general direction of the bin. "I'm glad that you want to spend time with me tonight," he said as patiently as possible, because it was the truth. Their relationship had been rocky for a while there, and he didn't want to leave while they were on the outs. "But not in a pub. Why don't we stay here and I'll order a pizza? You can ask Mum to pop 'round if she wants."

"Mum's busy tonight, and you're not getting out of this that easily. So help me you are going to do at least one fun thing before you leave," Harry said firmly. "It just so happens, I figured that you would say no to going out to the pub so I came up with something else we can do."

"What?" John asked, suspicious. It wasn't like her to give in that easily. He'd been half expecting her to put up quite a fight about not getting the chance to test herself against the struggle to remain sober. Harry was like that. Even if it was almost a certainty she'd lose the battle, she couldn't resist the challenge.

"I'll show you. Put on your clothes."

Before he could argue, she zipped out of the room and threw the door shut behind her. John sighed and let the towel he'd been clutching around his hips drop to the ground. He pulled on a pair of his own pants before he slipped into the trousers, which - after a quick perusal in the mirror - he had to admit clung to his arse nicely. The shirt fit well too, showing off just a hint of the muscles he'd developed. When she wasn't making a total pest of herself, Harry did have good taste.

He slipped some socks on and then the shoes before he ventured out into the kitchen. Harry was sitting at the table. She'd changed too, into a summery skirt and tank top which wasn't her typical kind of outfit and set off alarm bells in the back of John's mind. He stopped in the doorway and frowned, not buying the innocent smile she was wearing for a second. She was planning something and he had the sinking feeling that he had just allowed himself to play right into it.

Without saying a word, Harry spread a few glossy photographs over the table and gave a grand gesture. John approached and glanced at them, realizing that they were all pictures of tattoos - gorgeous tattoos, at that. Each one had been done with care, gentle black lines traced lovingly across the flesh backdrop. And the colour... it was so exquisitely detailed so as to make him wonder whether he was really looking at a tattoo or if the artist had been armed with paints instead. 

Harry's smile had widened into a grin during his silent examination of each photograph, and now she leaned forward and clasped her hands together. "His name is Sherlock. He and his partner own a tattoo shop together. People come from all over the world to get a tattoo done by him. He's really clever. He gives you the tattoo he deduces that you want, not the one you ask for."

"Sounds like a gimmick," John said, though he had to admit he was intrigued.

"I've researched him pretty thoroughly online. Loads of people complain about his attitude, but his work gets rave reviews." Harry touched the top of one photograph John held. It was beautiful, pale pink flowers rising up a green stem against dark skin. "This woman said she wanted to punch him in the face several times during the appointment, but she loved what he did and might even consider going back."

"How nice for her. I'm not sure what this has to do with us."

"I want to get a tattoo," Harry said flatly. "I've been sober for three months now. It's... that's the longest I've gone without since Dad gave me a beer when I was nine." She fidgeted, drumming her fingers nervously. "Bit of a milestone. I was hoping that you would come with me and get one at the same time."

Damn. John dropped his eyes back to the photos and took a deep breath. He wasn't thrilled at the idea. Needles didn't bother him, of course, but he wasn't sure he liked the thought of something being etched permanently onto his skin. But at the same time he wasn't sure how he was supposed to say no when Harry was looking at him so hopefully. For once, he could tell that she was being honest about this: it meant a lot to her. And if it would be something to keep her sober...

He sighed. "Maybe we could go look at the place."

"Great!" Harry's eyes lit up and she jumped to her feet. "I'll call a cab."

"Wait, now?"

"John, you ship out Friday. There's no time to waste."

"But..." John's head was spinning. He needed time to get used to this first. "Don't you typically need an appointment for this kind of thing?"

Harry pretended she couldn't hear him, too preoccupied with calling the cab company. "They'll be here in ten minutes," she announced.

"Harry."

"So we'd best get ready!"

" _Harry_."

Her shoulders dropped and she bit her lip. "I made us both appointments weeks ago, as soon as I knew you'd got notice to join," she admitted. "It ended up working out really well... for a while there I was worried that you would ship out before. It's really hard to get a spot. As it was, I managed to get you in with Sherlock but I had to go with his partner."

"I'm not promising anything," John said, because what more could he say? Harry had always been like this and she always would be. Most of the time he didn't mind standing up to her, but with the added knowledge that this had been months in the planning... he just couldn't. "For one thing I don't even know what I'd get."

"Don't worry. Like I said, Sherlock deduces the tattoo that you want." Harry patted him on the arm and grabbed her coat.

"What does that even mean?" he muttered, shrugging his own jacket on when she threw it in his face. He followed her downstairs and they waited on the pavement in silence for the cab to show up. Harry was practically bouncing on her heels with excitement, and he knew that as far as she was concerned the whole tattoo thing was a done deal.

The second they were in the cab Harry rattled off an address that wasn't very far from John's flat, though he had to admit that it wasn't in a part of town he normally frequented. He watched out the window as the shop came into view. It was very understated, looking much like any other tattoo parlour. There were huge glass windows to let people see inside, and the walls were lined with more of the gorgeous artwork Harry had shown him earlier. Above, a plain, lettered sign read, _The Science of Tattoos_.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn’t a fact that John would have wanted to share with the world, that his first urge after getting out of the cab was to turn right around and climb back in. Fortunately, as he was positive that his army mates would never let him live it down once they found out, Harry seized his arm and physically dragged him into the parlour. Her hands were shaking with excitement, and as the door swung gently shut behind them she looked around with an expression more suited to a toddler on Christmas morning.

Larger on the inside than it appeared on the outside, John was surprised to see that the place looked… normal. Somehow his imagination had conjured up a seedy sort of place with the chairs and equipment right out in the open and possibly inebriated, heavily tattooed men surrounded by buzzing needles. But instead there was a large desk right smack in the middle of the room and more of that gorgeous artwork on the walls, and while he couldn’t see into the back because the doors were closed it could’ve been a dentist or doctor’s office, even.

Harry finally released his arm so that she could sidle closer to the walls, staring with rapture. “God, could you imagine being this talented?” she asked in a hushed voice, reaching out to brush her fingers across a photograph of a tattoo depicting a naked woman sunning herself on a rock. The lines were much sharper, almost jagged, than the pictures John had seen before, but no less stunning. 

“Not really,” he said honestly, folding his arms. He wasn’t really clever at much. It was one of the reasons why he’d gone into medicine in the first place. That was more about cold, hard logic and memorized facts. Plus, it was one of few fields where both sentinels and guides were highly valued. While sentinels excelled at surgery, guides were known for both their nurturing gifts and ability to keep people calm under pressure, which was obviously a huge bonus when it came to treating injuries and keeping shock at a minimum.

“Oh, come on. You say that like you’re not good at anything,” Harry said, turning around and rolling her eyes. “How many guides are accepted into the army? Next to none, even though you guys are like... ideal for treating wounds on the battlefield. You had to pass all of those ridiculous tests just to prove you could do it. Not many people would have the patience for that.”

“The tests weren’t ridiculous,” John protested feebly, mostly because he privately agreed. The tests for guides were way more stringent than the ones for sentinels or humans, including psychological testing that had raked him to the core. It was strange: on the one hand, guides were the tethers that kept sentinels from succumbing to a zone and that no easy task. But on the other hand, people considered them delicate and fragile, apt to shatter at any moment, particularly when it came to something as traumatizing as a warzone.

John couldn’t stand that kind of attitude. Joining the army had always been a dream of his, though one he’d never thought he would actually be capable of attaining, and he knew he would be better at being a soldier than people realized. Finding out that he could do so through medicine – because there was always a need for medical personnel on the front – was just a bonus. He would’ve gladly gone through any test, no matter how inane, with a smile on his face for the dual opportunity, especially since the army was willing to fund the entire thing.

Harry gave him a critical look but said nothing more on the topic as one of the back doors finally opened. An older woman came out and stopped short at the sight of them. She was probably in her late fifties and she was not at all the kind of person that John would’ve associated with a tattoo parlour. For one thing she didn’t have any tattoos, and for another she was dressed as neatly as the office workers that John used to share his early morning commute with.

“Hello dears,” the woman said in a kindly voice, walking over to the desk. “Have you an appointment?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “Harry and John Watson.”

She reached under the desk and pulled out an appointment book briefly. Flipping it open, she studied it briefly and then nodded. “Here you are. I’ll just fetch Irene and Sherlock. It won’t be long.” She smiled at them both. “I’m Mrs Hudson. If you need anything, just let me know.”

“Thank you,” John said to her back. She moved fast for an older woman. He sat down to wait while she was gone, though Harry seemed to be too nervous to sit. She paced back and forth, continuing her examination of the wall, stopping only occasionally to comment on a piece.

He was the one to look up first when the door opened again, and right away he knew exactly why Harry had been so anxious to come here tonight. Or at least one of the reasons. Because the woman walking into the room was absolutely gorgeous. She was tall with dark hair wound back in a bun, leaving just a few curls to escape and brush her shoulders. The clothing she was wearing – a black pair of jeans with a green tank top – wasn’t overly revealing, but somehow it seemed like it was when paired with the dark stiletto heels.

“Mr and Mrs Watson?” she asked.

“It’s Miss,” Harry corrected before John could get a word in, and John recognized that gleam in her eyes. Harry was totally smitten, probably before she’d even exchanged a word in person. John had to hold back the sigh. It was so like his sister to be willing to get something permanent inked onto her body just for the chance to be near the artist for a few minutes.

“Oh, you’re siblings?”

“That’s right. This is my brother John, I’m Harry and I’m guessing you’re Irene.”

Irene smiled, finally, her bright red lips parting to reveal straight white teeth. “That’s correct. Come on. I’ll show you into Sherlock’s room on the way by, Mr Watson.”

It was a good thing John hadn’t planned on having his sister there next to him when he got his tattoo, because Harry couldn’t wait to get rid of him. He stared at their retreating backs and shook his head with amusement, wondering if Harry would end up with a date out of the situation. It wouldn’t be the worst thing if she did; she hadn’t dated anyone since she’d got sober, since most of her old friends were still firmly on the wagon and Harry didn’t deal with meeting new people very well.

He turned around to enter the room Irene had pointed to and stopped short, nearly swallowing his tongue at the sight of the man already inside. Keen blue-green eyes surveyed John from where the man was sprawled across a couch tucked against the far wall. Those eyes were nearly hidden by the mess of dark curls that hung haphazardly over his face, but evidently he could still see John well enough because his mouth opened and a rich, deep voice spilled out the following:

“You’re in the army, unusual for a guide like you, but I can tell by the way you hold yourself that you’re stubborn. Army loves traits like that, particularly if guides take orders well, and I imagine you do. You’re more worried about going to Afghanistan than you want to admit, mostly because you fought so hard to be accepted in the first place. Not just about your sister, though that is part of it, but about yourself as well. You’re not sure you’ll be able to handle what you’re about to face.”

After he’d processed the words, which did take a few seconds, John took a step into the room. “I’m guessing you must be Sherlock,” he said evenly. “And you’re mostly right, except that I _know_ I’ll be able to handle anything the army can throw at me.” He crossed his arms, refusing to admit that Sherlock was half-right about him being worried: only it wasn’t the casualties or wounds. He had the training necessary to handle that. It was the sentinel he was going to be paired with that gnawed at the back of his mind.

Sherlock eyed him for a few seconds before settling for a concise nod, apparently not willing to argue the point. He stood up gracefully, unfolding from the sofa in a way John could never hope to emulate, and said, “Shut the door. Sign those. Then take your shirt off. Sit with your back facing me.” He pointed to a chair.

Arguing didn’t seem to be worth the effort, so John obeyed. After all, he was there to get a tattoo. He glanced over the papers, realizing that, among other stipulations, it was a contract that forbade him from suing if he didn’t like the design he ended up with. He sighed but signed, then folded his shirt and set it aside. The chair Sherlock had indicated had a padded back, and it was surprisingly comfortable to straddle it so that his shoulders faced the room. He rested his chest and belly against the padding, sensing Sherlock behind him, and tried to prepare for the first light touch of fingers across his back. He failed, shivering at the gentle brush.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Shh. Be quiet.”

The whispered admonishment left him speechless. He silently listened to the sounds of Sherlock prepping his station. The initial touch of a sterile cloth against his flesh made him jump, but he quickly went lax again when the cloth paused pointedly. Sherlock seemed to have decided on the back of his left shoulder as the area for the tattoo, as he quickly shaved the area and then cleaned it again.

Then there was a long period during which he didn’t hear anything but the quick scribble of pencil across paper. He listened and tried not to wonder too deeply what kind of design that Sherlock had decided on, even though curiosity was burning through him. Sherlock stood up and walked away, returning a moment later to press something against John’s shoulder. The heat of his hand felt more intense this time and John barely kept himself from shivering again. 

After the paper was peeled away, he heard the low buzzing of the needle. His fingers clenched into the fabric of the chair and he grimaced when it was touched to his skin. It stung, though not as badly as he had expected. It felt a little like a cat with very hot claws was deliberately scratching him. Not unpleasant, but not unbearable. He shifted a little and then relaxed.

As he grew used to the sensation, he became aware of other stimulation. The sensation of Sherlock’s fingers brushing over his skin, pulling the flesh taut and wiping away blood and ink. The feel of Sherlock’s breath washing over his neck and ear, because the artist had leaned in close in order to fully concentrate. He tried not to think about it, wanting to squirm at the idea of being trapped under so much scrutiny. So much _focus_. A sentinel was capable of seeing far more deeply than he was comfortable with. He could only hope Sherlock would be willing to exercise discretion. 

The needle drifted sideways towards his spine and he sucked in a breath at the renewed sharpness of the pain, fighting the instinctive urge to move away. “That burns.”

“Be quiet.”

John sighed and gave up the idea of holding a conversation, instead resting his head against the padding and letting Sherlock work. In spite of the pain, there was something peaceful about sitting in an enclosed room with a sentinel. A sense of safety, of belonging, that he wasn’t accustomed to, one that sank into him and took hold in his core like Sherlock’s touch was transmitting the message to his body. He hoped that the sentinel he would be paired with by the middle of next week would feel the same.


	3. Chapter 3

The first inkling John had as to how the night was going to go was when the door of his mother’s house swung open before he could even touch the knob, and Olivia Watson took one look at his face before bursting into tears. John held back the sigh as he reached out and gathered her into a hug, exchanging a glance with Harry over her shoulder. Harry just shrugged and made a face, caught somewhere between apology and a grimace that strongly suggested this was not the first bout of tears that she’d seen that day.

“Mum, really, it’s going to be fine,” John said, giving her a quick pat on the back as she sniffed against his chest. This was exactly why he’d balked at the idea of a going away party in the first place, but Watson women were notoriously hard to say no to and his mother and sister were no exception. He had managed to say no the first couple of times the idea was brought up, but after that the decision had been taken out of his hands and he’d basically been told where and when to show up.

“I know. I know and I’m sorry.” Olivia took a deep breath and straightened up, dusting the remaining tears from her eyes. “It’s just… every time I think about my baby out there, it hits me all over again how much danger you’re going to be in.”

“It won’t be that bad,” John told her, already knowing it was useless. No matter how many times he explained that he wouldn’t be seeing much battle because he'd been trained as a doctor, that even though he was paired with a sentinel he would never be on the frontline, Olivia was convinced that he either wouldn't come home or that he'd be injured in some way. She had never outright forbidden him to go, but she’d made it clear that she wasn’t pleased with his choice.

Even now, she grabbed at his arm. “You don’t know that!”

“Mum, let him come inside,” Harry said, finally pulling the door open a little wider and gesturing for John to enter. “People are going to be arriving soon and they'll start to wonder if you two are standing out here. And you need to check on the turkey, I think I smell something burning.”

As their mother took off towards the kitchen, Harry hissed, “You owe me.”

“I owe you nothing,” John said, pointedly rotating his shoulder. The tattoo still ached a bit, particularly when he fell asleep and thoughtlessly rolled over on his back as he sometimes did. It was a little like having a bad sunburn, especially when he had to wash it in the morning. He wasn’t looking forward to how much it would sting during the first couple of days after he had to carry a few stone of equipment on his back.

Harry pouted. “That’s different and you know it. I had to spend the whole _week_ with her. She keeps crying and saying how she wishes Dad was here, even though it wouldn’t have made a damn bit of difference because he'd have applauded you. She brought out our _baby_ pictures for God’s sake! A little pain is _nothing_ compared to that.”

He grimaced, conceding the point, and followed Harry into the kitchen. There was a veritable feast already waiting for them, not including the huge turkey that Olivia was hoisting onto the table. She slipped her oven mitts off and said, “John, why don’t you carve before people start to arrive?”

“Sure, Mum.” He accepted the knife he was handed and set about taking the bird apart, his stomach growling hungrily as he worked. It would be a long time before he had another meal like this and he planned to savour it, though his mother’s eagle-eyed vision meant that he didn’t get the chance to sneak many pieces. She slapped his hand twice, though she was fighting a smile both times.

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” she asked quietly.

John glanced around, realizing too late that Harry had slipped away to man the door. He focused on the turkey. He’d prepared himself to have this discussion one last time, but that didn’t mean he wanted to. “We’ve talked about this before. It’s too late for me to change my mind now.”

“If you really wanted to get out of it, you could.”

“But I don’t.”

“I just… John, you’ve been shielded all your life. No, don’t argue.” Olivia held up a hand. “Just listen. It’s the truth. When your father and I realized that you had inherited… that you were a guide, we did everything we could to give you a normal life. Particularly once the Foundation discovered that you had the potential to be able to bond with a sentinel. They approached us several times, you know, trying to get us to send you to them, but we wanted you to have the choice about whether you ever wanted to pursue that part of your life.”

“I didn’t know that,” John said quietly. The Foundation was where most guides and sentinels went to be trained in the use of their abilities, but his parents had foregone that route and instead hired a personal teacher who had taught him everything he knew. It was infinitely more expensive than the free training offered by the Foundation, but he’d never really stopped to think about why they would’ve done that.

He set his knife down and turned to face her. “Are you worried about me bonding?”

“No. If that’s what you want, you have my full approval. I know that you were taught exactly what bonding means.” Olivia sighed. “You know that it leaves a lasting imprint and is extremely difficult to break at the very least. But I’m concerned about what it might mean for you in a warzone. _You_ may not be on the front lines, but your sentinel likely will be. And if you’re close enough…”

“I don’t think that sentinel and guide pairs that meet through the army ever get that close,” said John.

“It could happen. It _has_ happened, rare though it might be, and I’m your mother. I can’t help worrying about every possible outcome, especially because I’m the one who passed the ability to be a guide on to you in the first place.”

“Mum, that’s not your fault. It’s not like you had a say in it. You know it comes down to chance. I’m a guide, Harry’s not. I have blue eyes, hers are grey. It’s chance. It could’ve been just as easily the other way around, or both of us, or neither of us.”

Olivia shook her head. “It was still me and my family,” she said stubbornly. “Please promise me you’ll be cautious. They’ll push you to bond as fast as they can and I understand why, but don’t throw yourself into it. You need your shields to remain strong when you’re in the middle of so much pain and death. You can’t afford to let yourself become too vulnerable, no matter what the army says.”

“But my sentinel will need me.”

“I know. Just… think about yourself too.” She squeezed his arm. “You’re my priority, honey, not the sentinel the army picked out for you. I need you to become back whole and safe in every way, not just physically.”

John nodded, a little troubled, and she smiled at him and went out to greet the guests that they could both hear arriving. He finished up with the turkey and put the knife in the sink, washing his hands slowly while he thought. He’d known, of course, that he would be paired with a sentinel the first day he arrived. Possibly even before, if his sentinel was coming from London too. So maybe even tomorrow.

Now he not only had to worry about whether he would be capable of bonding with a sentinel, there was this. And the worst part of all was that his mother was right. The stories about guides or sentinels who returned from the war broken because of a severed bond were rare, mostly because the army worked hard to hard to hush those kinds of stories up. Sentinels were so valuable that no one wanted to dissuade them from choosing a career in any protective work, be it on the front or as a police officer or M16.

But there were still stories, more rumours than anything, about what happened. After all, army bonds were rarely natural. They typically tended to be forced, which meant there was already something flawed about the very nature of the bond. So when they shattered, particularly when the guide or sentinel left behind was in an unfamiliar and dangerous place filled with pain and death, as his mother had so kindly pointed out, the results were… not pretty. 

He closed his eyes and focused on the panic that was surging through him, using the tactics that had been taught to him as a child to calm his body and emotions. He breathed out and eased up on the grip he had unconsciously taken on the counter, straightening up slowly. His tutor had complimented him on the strength of his shields several times while he was growing up, and even now he could tell that the conversation with his mother hadn't bothered anyone outside the room. He was not projecting, and nor was he picking up on anyone else.

A quiet sound behind him, that of someone picking up a glass, made him spin. He drew back sharply against the counter in surprise when he realized that Sherlock was standing right behind him. Before he could say a word, Sherlock said, "I felt you."

Of course he had. Sherlock was a sentinel, and he must have been a fairly strong one to have been able to sense that a guide not bonded to him was fluctuating their shield. John sighed, crossing his arms, glad that he'd drawn himself in before Sherlock arrived. "It's fine. I'm fine. I was just having a discussion with my mother."

Sherlock made a face. "You don't need to say anymore," he muttered distastefully, and John found himself smiling a little. 

"She's not very pleased about me going to war," he said, because he didn't want Sherlock to get the wrong idea. Even though there was a good chance Sherlock had heard every word of the conversation, or been able to deduce it if he hadn't. "No matter how many times I tell her it's too late for me to change my mind... I don't think the army would take lightly to that."

"No, they wouldn't," Sherlock said, and it was so matter-of-fact that John instantly liked him a little bit more. Everyone he'd spoken to who tried to convince him to change his mind was so sure that the army would understand, like it would be no harder to get out of deployment than it would to return a shirt to the shop. Sherlock was the first one to actually agree that it wouldn't be so easy, guide or not.

"I suppose Harry invited you," he added, and then, realizing that sound rude, he continued, "I'm glad she did. I saw the tattoo you gave me. Thank you. I like it."

Sherlock looked pleased. "I hoped you would. I seem to get mixed reactions."

"I can understand why." The tattoo John had received was a small, but incredibly detailed, version of the Guide Crest with his last name written in small letters underneath. It was stupid, made John feel ridiculous, but he couldn't deny that having it there made him feel like he was ready to go to war. Like it was the seal of approval he'd never received but needed to give him the courage to do this.

"I do, though. Like it. A lot. You're talented."

"If you like it, you should come by the shop when you return. I'll give you another. No appointment necessary."

John looked at him and their eyes met. Something tugged in the vicinity of his chest, leaving him a little breathless, and he turned hastily away. "Maybe I'll do that," he said quietly, even though he figured the chances of that happening weren't very high. "I just might."

Sherlock nodded. "Good luck, John," he said, and stuck out a hand. John shook it automatically, only realizing after the fact how awkward it was. Sherlock shook like he had no practice at it, like he only did it because he figured he was supposed to. 

"Thank you," John said simply, and then Sherlock walked away and John went out to join the rest of the party.


	4. Chapter 4

They had warned him that it would be difficult to return to London. 

The last session he’d had in that stupid little room, all soft lights and white robed figures that blurred together into a smear, sometimes felt like an impression burned into his eyes. Patience, they’d whispered, the word a low, hated drum in the back of his mind. You’ll have to learn to be patient, to not be so quick to anger. The civilians won’t understand your frustration, and you could easily hurt someone by projecting if you don’t exercise caution until your shields are repaired.

John stared up at the ceiling of his flat. It was white, which wasn’t doing much to improve his mood, and the sleepless nights he’d had since stepping foot on home soil were only compounding the problem. Ironically, even with everything that had happened while he was over there, he'd still slept better in Afghanistan. And it wasn’t because of the cocktail of drugs he’d been given, either. The distant sound of gunfire, the familiar thrum of other shields, the general mixture of adrenaline and exhaustion that permeated the soul… 

London was far too _quiet_.

He sighed in disgust, giving any idea of sleep up as a lost cause, and sat up, swinging his legs down so his feet touched the floor. Sitting up so abruptly made his blood rush and the room swam around him. For a split second he thought he saw more of those damnable figures, and he caught a hand against the wall and sat very still until the room had settled into something slightly more recognizable. But only slightly. The cramped flat that the army had rented for him was still unfamiliar, still unwanted.

It took effort to haul himself to his feet, made worse by the fact that he was mostly dependent on his right arm for his daily tasks. Everything took so much more effort. Even just the act of getting dressed, something which should have been easy, required him to rest afterwards. And he had to be so _careful_ about what he wore now that the fingers of his left hand sometimes had a hard time with tiny buttons and he had difficulty lifting his arm above the level of his shoulder. Sometimes he thought that just sitting stark naked in his flat would be both better and more fulfilling.

Because really, when he was finally dressed and the shooting pains running down his arm had eased, he had nowhere to go. Well, that wasn’t necessarily true. He just didn’t want to go, mostly because the thought of going to his appointment was not appealing in the slightest. He already knew what Ella was going to say: that he couldn’t let Afghanistan dictate the rest of his life, that he had to be willing to open himself up to new possibilities, that his life wasn’t over yet and a new chapter was just beginning.

He didn’t believe a word of it and he was getting pretty tired of hearing it over and over. It wasn’t Ella’s fault. He knew that’s what she and all the other psychologists employed by the army were required to say. But just because she was a leading expert in guide psychology didn’t mean that she was right. Not in this case. As far as John was concerned, the bullet should have struck him a few inches over and down so that he wouldn’t be here to care anymore. Although, of course, he couldn’t exactly say that less he be locked up for his ‘own good’.

The time for his appointment came and went, and his mobile phone began to buzz. Knowing that it was probably just Ella or her receptionist, he made no move to answer it. Eventually the buzzing stopped, but his phone was only quiet for a moment before it started again. He knew they wouldn’t stop. The calls would keep coming until he answered. Instead of giving in, he slipped his phone into his pocket and stood up. He pulled on a jacket, leaving it unzipped, and left the flat. 

It was cold and quiet outside considering the time of day. John huddled into his jacket and set as fast of a pace as he could, which wasn’t really very fast at all. His leg ached with residual pain, a slow burn that got worse the more he pushed himself. It would never serve to get him to his destination, which was the only reason he stopped and called for a cab. At least it wasn’t coming out of his pocket. The army was giving him a decent fund to live off, even if the money technically shouldn’t have been his.

A cab finally pulled up and John got in, reciting his destination in a monotone. The cabbie seemed to sense he wasn’t willing to talk and didn’t speak, leaving only the radio to break up the silence. John just stared out the window at the fog, his leg and shoulder throbbing in tune to the beat of his heart. The doctors said he was lucky, that given time he would probably regain full use of his arm – but that it would probably always hurt a little even once it was fully healed, and that he’d never be able to block it out.

He closed his eyes briefly. Of course he couldn’t. His shields were shattered, and it was only the medication he was on that kept him from either projecting on those around him or losing himself in the maelstrom of emotion that surrounded the average person. That was the whole reason why he was headed where he was, so that he could tell his mother that she’d been right to worry. The stories of the guides who lost their sentinels weren’t so very rare after all.

“Here we are, mate,” the cabbie said finally, guiding the car to a stop. “You want me to wait?”

“No. I’ll be a while.” John handed him a few bills and got out, straightening up stiffly. It was instinct to try and ease the tension by rotating his shoulder, but he’d been warned against doing so. The muscles weren’t in good enough condition for that yet.

The grounds where Olivia Watson had been buried was small, on the very outskirts of London. It was surrounded by a wrought iron fence. The gate was open and John shuffled inside, his feet striking the brick path with a heavy _thunk_. He didn’t need to search for his mother’s grave, as he already knew exactly where she would be buried. Right beside her husband, in the plot Olivia had purchased for herself at the same time as she buried him. John had walked this path several times since that day, but he hadn’t thought he would do it for this reason so soon.

He knelt down in front of the stone, pleased to see that Harry had done a good job. The area was being tended to, as evidenced by the fresh carnations that had been placed on the recently trimmed grass. He fingered the soft pink petals, feeling a pang of shame for not having thought to stop long enough to purchase a bouquet. His mind had been scattered recently, but that was something so _basic_ for a visit to a grave that he was embarrassed. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Hi Mum,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse from disuse. It sounded obscenely loud in the otherwise silence and he flushed. He hated the fact that he hadn’t been here, and no matter how often Ella pointed out that no one could have anticipated the car accident that killed Olivia and put Harry in the hospital for two weeks it did nothing to lessen his guilt. 

He sighed and rubbed his forehead, shifting in discomfort. “I know I should’ve come to see you before now, but I couldn’t. Guess I wasn’t ready until it meant I could put off another appointment with Ella.” He attempted a smile that failed miserably even as he chuckled. “God, if you were here you’d be so pissed at me for skipping.”

She would have been, too. But then, if his mother had been there a lot of things would have been different. He cast his eyes back down to the grass and fisted his trembling hands. “I guess Harry probably told you what happened by now. Bill’s dead, and you were… you were pretty much right, Mum. I think I let him in too far and now I don’t have any clue what’s left.

“Ella keeps telling me that it just takes time. She says that the tests they made me sit through prove I could still bond with the right sentinel. She wants me to go to the Foundation and ask them for a match. Can you believe that? I cut that off at the pass. Even if I did want that, you and Dad did everything you could to keep me away from them. I wouldn’t go to them now even if I was starving in the streets, and with what the army is paying me as a widower that’s not going to happen.”

He fell quiet again. He didn’t like using that word, widower, even though it was stamped all over his files and had been repeatedly thrust in his face by the doctors and Ella alike. It implied something about his and Bill’s relationship which hadn’t been true. They were - had been - a match of convenience, not love, and Bill had a human wife that he’d loved very much. He’d made it clear from the beginning that he was not interested in pursuing a romantic relationship with John.

Since Bill’s death John had spoken to her only once over the phone at the insistence of a therapist, and he could tell that she had been absolutely shattered by Bill’s death.

John just felt numb.

He wanted to keep talking but he wasn’t sure what to say. Some things couldn’t be described in words, and what he’d gone through in Afghanistan was one of them no matter how hard Ella pushed him. Maybe if his mother had still been here, it would’ve been easier. But picturing her warm smile and the huge hug she’d given him before he got on the plane just wasn’t enough.

The next few minutes passed in silence while John struggled to find something - anything - to say. He was almost relieved when he heard the shuffle of footsteps behind him. He turned his head just far enough to see that it was Harry standing behind him, holding two bouquets of carnations. Without a word, she knelt next to him and handed him the white flowers. Then she gently placed her bouquet of yellow on the grave. John hesitated briefly before he set down his flowers beside hers. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes before he finally said, “How did you know I was here?” 

“Ella called me. I’m listed as your emergency contact. She was worried when you didn’t show up for your appointment and didn’t answer your phone. I figured there wasn’t too many places you could be, and GPS tracking helped narrow it down a fair bit.” She smiled a little.

Guess he should’ve expected that, though he was a little surprised that Harry had gone through the effort of finding him. He hadn’t spoken to her much since his return to London. She looked good, though. Better than she had when he left. She was almost two years sober now, after one harrowing relapse just after Olivia’s death, and time had served her well. 

“Will you come home with me, John?” she said quietly.

“Why?”

“Because I’m your sister, and now we’re pretty much the only family we have. Unless you want to keep staying where you are…”

“No,” John said, maybe a little too quickly. He didn’t know if living with Harry would really work, but he dreaded the thought of going back to that cramped little flat enough to try. “No, I… if you’ve got the room, I’ll come.”

Harry’s smile widened and she stood up, offering him her hand. “Good.”


	5. Chapter 5

As it turned out, Harry was doing even better for herself than John had expected. Last time he'd returned home for a visit she was still living in the flat she'd found as a student. It was a decent place, head and shoulders above the cramped hole in the wall that the army had found for him, but he couldn't help being concerned about what it would be like for them to be right on top of each other constantly. That hadn't worked out so well for them when they were children, and he couldn't imagine it working any better now.

But the flat that Harry took him to now was in a different, better part of London. It had two bedrooms and a good sized kitchen, and most of the furniture was new and the neighbours were actually quiet. She had food in the cupboard, locks on the door, the whole place was pretty clean and there was no beer or alcohol in the refrigerator. It was like meeting a whole new Harry and he wasn't sure what to think about her, because he never would have thought his sister could come this far.

Maybe that was an awful way to think, but after the last time that Harry had relapsed... he'd seen it coming following the funeral, but there was just no way to stop it. Not when the army expected him to return overseas pretty much immediately. He knew better than most the statistics when it came to alcoholics who actually managed to remain sober and it was depressingly low, particularly when he factored in the loss of their mother. Olivia had been Harry's biggest supporter, encouraging her the whole through rehab and attending meetings with her unfailingly, and that loss was Harry's undoing.

Harry walked in behind him just as he was shutting the door of the refrigerator. Her mouth was quirked into a faint smile. "Are you convinced that I'm not secretly hiding alcohol, or would you like to check the cupboards again? How about my bedroom? You never know, I might be hiding whiskey underneath my mattress."

"You'd never cough up the money for a mattress of high enough quality not to feel it, and you don't have any bruises," John replied, straightening up and concealing his wince as his muscles protested. Kneeling on the ground for an hour had not done him any favours. "We all know that you bruise if you so much as look at the side of a table wrong."

"Things have changed," Harry said pointedly.

He took the hint, and even though he didn't really feel all that apologetic he still said, "Harry, I'm sorry. You're right. I shouldn't have even looked."

"No, it's okay. I understand why you did. If our situations were reversed, I probably would have done the same thing. I just hate that you have to." She looked off into the distance for a few seconds and then sighed, running her fingers through her hair. "I'm the first to admit that I didn't handle Mum's death that well. I did go a little crazy there for a while. It was a bad time for me. I didn’t know how to cope so I turned to drinking the way I did when I was a teenager and Dad died.”

She looked back at him, and her stare was unusually penetrating. “But that's all behind me, John, I promise. I’m sober again. Have been for a while now. I wouldn't have come around if it wasn't. The last thing I want to do is make this whole thing harder on you.” 

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

“Actually, I think I do. You’re my brother, for one thing. And I might not know everything that happened while you were gone, and maybe I’m not a guide or a sentinel so I can’t really tell on a deeper level, but I have eyes. I can see what it did to you, being over there, and If I can help in any way I want to.”

John dropped his gaze, unsure of what to say in the face of such honesty. Now he felt a little guilty that he hadn’t contacted Harry after he’d returned. Ella had encouraged him to, but he’d shot the idea down flat. With his shields torn to pieces, it was difficult to be around even normal humans – he couldn’t help picking up on their pain, their sorrow, even their joy – without running the risk of being around an alcoholic. Hard as it was to believe, though, Harry really did seem to have changed. 

“I’m not sorry I went,” he said quietly. “But… Mum was right.”

“I never thought I’d hear you say that,” Harry said, and John huffed a dry laugh. There was a tight smile on her face, and she folded her arms across her chest like she was expecting him to say no. “What do you say? Are you willing to give living with me a shot?”

“Can’t be any worse than where I am.”

Harry rolled her eyes. “I’m beginning to think I should change my mind and not let you move in after all.”

“No take backs,” John said automatically, pleased when she laughed for real. He’d forgotten how nice it was to talk to Harry when she was sober and in a good mood. It seemed weird now to think that he was the fucked up one and she was the one who had her life together. God only knew that the exact opposite had been the case for years. It was even weirder to think that he was going to have to follow her example.

“Come on, I’ll show you to your room.” Harry led him out of the kitchen and down the hall, showing him to what was clearly the guest bedroom. It was very nice, pretty much the size of John’s entire flat, and decorated in blue and white. John looked around curiously, wondering what Harry was doing if she was able to afford a flat this nice in London. He was certain that it couldn’t be cheap.

“We’ll have to go get your things,” Harry went on, moving closer to the bed and smoothing a hand over the quilt. “Whatever we don’t have room for, we can put in storage. I had to put some of Mum’s stuff away with what she was keeping for you while you were gone. I didn’t know what you would want to bin so I didn't go through any of it. We can store the rest of your things with hers until you’re ready to go through it all.”

“Thanks Harry,” John said, suddenly grateful that he had decided to skip out on his appointment. This room was a thousand times nicer than what would have been waiting for him, and it wasn’t just because he was almost positive that the quilt on the bed was one that Olivia had crocheted. He could feel Harry’s honesty, her genuine desire to help, now that he was willing to open himself to it without prejudice. It left him warm in places that had been cold and empty for a long time.

“Anytime, little bro.” She ruffled his hair, smirking when he swatted at her hand. “We’ll have to do the bulk of it tonight because I work tomorrow. You should come with me.”

“Where do you work?”

There was something slightly sheepish in Harry’s face when she said, “ _The Science of Tattoos_?”

John turned to stare at her in astonishment. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“How the hell did you end up there?”

“I went back for another tattoo not long after you left,” Harry said defensively. “Irene is fantastic at what she does and she was willing to fit me in. What I wanted was a little more intricate so it took a couple of planning sessions, and in the process we got to talking and… we started hanging out, going for coffee. Then after Mum died, she was really helpful in getting me back on track. That’s when she offered me a job. And I wasn’t exactly going to say no. It was steady employment and she didn’t care that I'd dropped out of uni.”

“Do you give people tattoos?” It was the only question he could think to ask. Somehow this felt like a lot to wrap his mind around, and he didn’t know why. Out of their family, Harry was definitely the only one he could imagine working at a tattoo parlour. But she had never been particularly artistic, so unless she had improved a lot…

Harry rolled her eyes. “No. For your information, I’m apprenticing as a body piercer.”

“A _body_ piercer?”

“It’s something else the shop offers and Irene’s the only one there who can do it, but she wants to focus more on the tattoo side. So when she offered to teach me, I said yes.” Harry tipped her chin up, a mulish expression he’d seen their father wear on more than once occasion settling across her face. “I went to a training course, too. Irene says she thinks I’ll be able to take over that side of things completely in the next year or so.”

“So you…” John made a weak motion with his hands to signify a needle. 

“I pierce whatever the client wants, whether that’s an ear or a belly button or a nipple or” suddenly, she was smirking “their cock.”

“Jesus, Harry!”

She was laughing at him. “A lot of guys get it done. If you were interested, I bet Irene would let me give you the family discount.”

“God no,” John said emphatically, cringing at the idea. He was too well versed in the dangers of infection to want anything near that part of his body, thank you very much. A tattoo was one thing, but Harry was never going to talk him into getting _that_ done.

“Baby,” Harry said affectionately, and she would have tousled his hair again had he not stepped back out of reach. “Seriously, though. You should come with me. I think it would be good for you to get out and see other people. By which I mean people who _aren’t_ being paid to psychoanalyze you.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Good. Do you want to head over to your flat now?”

“Sure, I’ll be right out.” He followed her out of the room but paused by the bathroom door, letting her continue out into the kitchen. John stepped inside and closed the door, making sure that it locked. He used the facilities and washed his hands, marvelling at the fact that he actually had room to turn around, and then dried them carefully before he glanced into the mirror.

The reflection staring back at him was not what John was used to seeing. It was not what he wanted to see. Sallow face, empty blue eyes, lank hair in need of a wash. His time in Afghanistan had given him a tan, but it didn’t look like it. He was too thin, too gaunt, now that even the muscles he had built up were shrinking after spending two months on forced bed rest and not doing much by way of physical labour even after his return to London. But that wasn’t even the worst of it.

He hiked his shirt up as far as he could, turning his eyes away from the still healing wound on his shoulder. The flesh was puckered and shiny with soft, new pink flesh, the edges of where he'd had stitches still visible. He turned away, looking over his shoulder to see the back where the exit wound was located – because it had ripped straight through him, punched in and out and left him for dead. The bullet that had hit him couldn’t have been better aimed if the gunman had been deliberately aiming. 

His tattoo was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns next chapter, I swear.


	6. Chapter 6

In light of everything that had changed about London while John was gone, it was somehow comforting to know that a couple of things were still the same – even if one of those things happened to be a tattoo parlour. Harry didn’t even have to drag him into the shop this time; John was actually the first one through the door. He was surprised by how genuinely eager he was to see the calm interior that he remembered, the one so beautifully decorated with the tattoos that Sherlock and Irene had created.

The room smelt of vanilla from the lit candles in the window in spite of how crowded it was. Harry took one look at the mess of waiting people and sighed, thrusting her bag into John’s arms before she pushed her way closer to the counter. “Alright. _Alright_ , I said! Give me a minute to find the appointment book and I’ll gladly help you all out.”

“I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes,” one man said, looking angry.

Harry just shot him a look and ducked behind the counter, coming up with the book that John vaguely recalled seeing Mrs. Hudson holding. She began dealing with the clients one by one. As it turned out, most of them were waiting to ask for an appointment for a tattoo or a piercing, or to ask a question. Three young girls were waiting to see Irene, and there was an older woman waiting for Sherlock. Harry sent them on through the door. Everyone else was summarily dealt with and escorted out of the shop as quickly as possible.

“Lord,” Harry said once the place was finally empty, a good thirty minutes later. She slammed the book shut. “I can’t wait until they hire someone else for this position. It’s really getting on my nerves.”

“What happened to Mrs Hudson?”

“She retired, and they’ve been searching for someone new for a while now but they haven’t found anyone they think would be suitable for the position. So in the meantime we’ve just been covering it as best we can. Mostly me. God knows Irene tries, and when I’m on shift I don’t mind being out there, but Sherlock hides in his room… He wouldn’t come out to help someone no matter who it was.” She blew a few strands of hair off her forehead and, finally, smiled. “Though maybe in retrospect that’s for the best. The last time he spoke to a client out here, he almost got punched in the face.”

“Does that happen a lot?” John asked, raising an eyebrow.

“More than you would think. Well, you would know. You had a session with him. You saw what he’s like.”

John nodded, choosing to remain quiet on the subject rather than saying something incriminating. He and Harry had never really discussed what it was like to get their tattoos – although the next morning, John had been treated to a long lecture on why Irene Adler was practically perfect – and he found himself reluctant to admit that he hadn’t found Sherlock too bad at all. Sure, the man was abrupt and sort of rude. And he’d been kind of a prick and a show off, what with the way he’d instantly launched into deducing things about John that most people would have preferred be kept secret.

But his fingers had been so very gentle, touching John’s flesh with the kind of care and attention that was typically unheard of for a sentinel. He may not have been interested in hearing John speak, but the comfortable silence that had eventually grown between them was soothing in its own way. He wasn’t used to being able to sit with someone and not feel the urge to break up the silence with empty chatter. In fact, after months of being subjected to hearing people talk at him, John could’ve used some more of that.

Harry squinted at him suspiciously when he didn’t say anything, but shrugged her shoulders. “Anyway. I have to go talk to Irene about my shift today if we’re going to finish unpacking your stuff tonight. If anyone comes in, just yell for me and I’ll come back out.”

“Okay.” He watched her head through the door, catching a brief glimpse of the hallway beyond before it swung shut behind her. There really wasn’t much for him to do after that, since there was only so long he could stare at the photographs on the walls. Beautiful as they were, within thirty or so minutes he was pretty sure he had memorized most of it.

He wasn’t sure whether he should be grateful or not when a couple of people finally walked in. Both of them paused in front of the counter and stared at him with expectant looks, and right about then John finally clued in to what was, in all likelihood, his sister’s master plan. The talk about Mrs Hudson retiring and how difficult it was to maintain the front without help was not at all lost on him, not to mention the way she had attempted to get a feel for his opinion on Sherlock. She was trying to get him hired.

Which meant that even if he yelled for her, she probably wouldn’t come. John sighed and forced a smile. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Sherlock,” said the guy, already glancing past John to the door. “He knows me.”

“I think he’s with someone right now.”

“Great, maybe I’ll be in time to stop him from getting punched again,” the guy said wryly. 

John quirked a smile. “I’m beginning to think that’s the de facto greeting for him.”

“Might as well be. Greg Lestrade.” 

“John Watson.” John shook his hand and then watched as Lestrade rounded the counter and pushed through the door with an ease that suggested he’d been there several times before. He wondered if he should be stopping Lestrade from heading into the back, but then again – that wasn’t really his job, was it?

“I’m here for a piercing,” said the girl still waiting, making his decision for him. “A nipple piercing, to be exact.”

There was no way that the tips of John’s ears didn’t redden. He fought to keep from dropping his eyes to her ample breasts. “Um, sure. Just let me –”

“I can take you right now,” Harry said. She had to have been listening behind the door all this time for her to have had such perfect timing, and John turned a glare on her. Harry pretended not to notice. “You wanted a nipple piercing? Right breast or left?”

“Good God,” John muttered as the door closed behind them, suddenly deeply grateful that whoever had renovated the building into a tattoo parlour had paid for decent soundproofing. That was one conversation he really did not need to be a part of.

He stayed up front more for lack of anything to do than because he had any real interest in answering the phone – though he did answer whenever it rang. For a modern tattoo parlour, Sherlock and Irene had an antiquated way of keeping track of appointments. At least the leather bound book was fairly simple to figure out. The front section was in blue and was reserved for Sherlock, and the back in red was for Irene. There was a tiny purple section in the middle for Harry. Up to a certain point the small, concise handwriting had to be Mrs Hudson’s, but after that it got a little out of control.

Frankly, it was a mess. But considering that Harry had been the one keeping track for the most part, he wasn’t exactly surprised. She’d never been overly organized. It was the kind of book with removable pages, and he idly thought to himself that if it was his, he’d add new calendar pages and copy everything over… leaving out the crossed-out appointments and scribbles. At least make it look half-decent and more easily read than the disaster that it was now.

He didn’t write anything down in the book, just kept track of who called and jotted it all down on a notepad. Clients were surprisingly receptive to the fact that they might have to wait months for appointments, though none of them seemed pleased when he said that he couldn’t actually schedule anything. One guy even tried to threaten him. Deeply amused, John just told him that he would have to wait until Irene was available and hung up. After what he’d been through, it would take far more than unoriginal threats to make an impact.

About three hours after Harry deserted him – and either there was a separate exit or she’d spent most of the time snogging with that girl, because neither of them came back up front – the door opened and Sherlock, Lestrade and the guy who’d had an appointment with Sherlock came out. The guy was beaming and Sherlock didn’t appear to have any fresh bruises, so apparently Lestrade had arrived in time. It would’ve indeed been a shame for those cheekbones to be covered with a bruise… Amazing how Sherlock didn’t look any different from the last time John had seen him…

Sherlock glanced at him and John dropped his eyes hastily, realizing he was staring.

“Thanks a lot,” the guy said, and then he held out a wad of bills. Sherlock just stared impassively at his hand, making no move to take it, and after a few seconds of awkward silence John sighed and shuffled to the end of the counter. He took the money, set the bills down, and caught a glimpse of vivid ink on the back of the guy’s neck as he turned and left.

“I see you finally hired someone new for the desk,” Lestrade said.

“Actually –”

“Yes.”

They spoke at the exact same time and John stopped, speechless, as Sherlock continued, “It’s a recent hire, Irene’s doing. He’s not trained yet. But he will be.”

“I didn’t agree to that,” John protested.

“You accepted the money,” Sherlock said, like that was somehow a binding agreement, and Lestrade chuckled as John sputtered. 

“C’mon, you can walk me out.” He nudged Sherlock in the ribs with his elbow and Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he followed Lestrade to the door. John couldn’t help watching them go. Lestrade reached up to a clap a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as they walked out, squeezing tightly, and then he left it there as they stepped onto the pavement. It was another gesture that spoke of just as much familiarity as when he’d walked around the counter, but with more… possessiveness.

No matter what people said about his personality, Sherlock had at least one friend, then. Or maybe more. He leaned against the counter, unable to imagine a man like Sherlock allowing just anyone to put a hand on him. For a tattoo artist that spent most of the day with his hands on other people, John hadn’t taken long to notice that he was surprisingly shy about letting people touch _him_. It would have to be someone special. Someone like a boyfriend, maybe, or even a lover.

He was surprised and discomfited by the burn of jealousy that shot through him. He wasn’t interested in guys. John Watson was not gay. Sherlock was just interesting, that was all. He turned back to the money and jumped about a foot in the air when he realized that Irene was standing at the end of the counter, watching him with a small, entirely too knowing smirk on her face. She just threw her head back at his reaction and laughed.

“You’re hired.”

“I didn’t –”

“Sherlock likes you, Harry likes you, you seem competent.” Irene glanced quickly over his notes and nodded. “Though honestly, even if you weren’t I’d still hire you just because you get along with that idiot.”

“You don’t even _know_ me,” John said, frustrated. There’d been no interview, no background check. And he wasn’t sure he wanted a job here.

“You can start tomorrow,” Irene said with an air of finality, like he hadn’t even spoken, and smiled.


	7. Chapter 7

In spite of John’s initial reluctance, he was surprised to find that he actually enjoyed working for _The Science of Tattoos_. It was a complete change from anything that he had done before, but nothing about the work was overly complicated: for the first couple of weeks, he made appointments, answered the phone, reorganized their filing system, and took payment for services rendered. But even though the work was not difficult, he found that there was something satisfying about it. 

After Irene discovered that he was decent with numbers, she also had him start doing some light accounting. John didn’t mind that at all. He liked being able to sit at the counter with the books open in front of him, keeping an eye on the storefront while also being available in case Sherlock, Irene or Harry needed him for anything. Numbers were straightforward and didn’t change. One plus one was always going to be two, and the gratitude in Irene’s face the first time he presented her with bills that had already been paid was more than enough thanks even without the small increase to his wages.

He hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, not even Ella, but working at the parlour even helped with his nightmares. Most of the clients coming in were anxious and maybe even a little frightened, but they left excited and pleased with their new tattoo. John soaked those emotions up like a balm, drawing them closely ‘round himself like they could heal him from the outside in. It didn’t work, of course, but feeling something other than the consuming emptiness that had been there since Bill died was a godsend.

One night just after the shop closed, he was still bent over the counter trying to figure out where some miscellaneous pounds had gone when there was a knock at the door. He looked up, squinting, and recognized Lestrade. The man had been a somewhat regular visitor, showing up every three to four days and spending a few hours in conversation with Sherlock. It was longer than anyone usually talked to Sherlock, John included, and he often wondered what they were talking about. 

He didn’t dare ask, mostly because he didn’t really want confirmation that Lestrade and Sherlock were dating. He wanted to know that bit of information even less than why the thought of them dating bothered him as much as it did. 

“Hang on,” John called out, sliding off his stool and walking as quickly as he could to the door. He unlocked it and stepped back, ushering in Lestrade and his companion, and glanced out at the pouring rain. “God, it’s miserable out there, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” Lestrade said, giving his head a shake and mopping water out of his face. “John, this is Molly Hooper. You’ll probably see her around a fair amount, she’s Irene’s guide.”

John slammed the door a little too hard in shock, turning to stare at the woman in surprise. She was younger than he would have thought had he bothered to imagine, with long red hair pulled back in a ponytail and warm brown eyes. Molly’s smile was shy but welcoming as she drew her blue jumper closer around her body, and all in all she was not at all what he expected of Irene Adler’s mate. He barely acknowledged Lestrade slipping away, too anxious to see Sherlock to stand around talking. He was too fascinated by the first guide he’d really spoken to since he’d returned to London.

“It’s nice to meet you,” Molly said finally. 

“You too,” John replied, gripping her hand gently. “I, uh, I didn’t know Irene was mated.”

“We work separate jobs, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. I really don’t have any interest in tattoo work, I’m afraid. And I’m not sure anyone who was alive would trust me around them with needles. I can’t draw at all, not even stick figures.” She gave a little laugh. “But I’m close enough that if Irene needs me or vice versa, we can rush over. We compromise a lot.”

“Your bond must be pretty strong to withstand you being apart for so long.”

Molly shrugged. “It comes and goes. We room together, and so long as we spend enough time together at night and during lunch it’s not a huge deal. Do you have a sentinel, John?”

Even though he should have expected her to ask, because of course she had picked up on the fact that he was a guide, the question still froze him to the spot. There was a beat of silence during which Molly’s smile started to fade as she sensed that she had asked a sensitive question, and he swallowed hard. “No, I – I don’t. Not anymore. I was in the army, and my sentinel…”

“Oh God,” Molly said, looking horrified. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have – it was none of my business.”

“It’s okay. I guess I should get used to talking about it,” John said, forcing a smile and hoping that Molly’s shields were strong enough to block out the renewed flush of guilt, self-loathing and pain pounding through him. “It was about six months ago. I was stationed in Afghanistan as a doctor and he was on the frontlines.”

“You’re a doctor,” Molly repeated, seizing the change of subject like a grateful puppy. “Is that why you’re working at a tattoo parlour? You must have incredibly steady hands.”

“Actually, I just do the work up front,” John told her, not wanting to get in to discussing his hands. His right hand was fine, but his left was another story entirely. Some of the nerves in his shoulder had been damaged when he was shot. Physical therapy was helping, but he was still years away from being able to do the fine scalpel work that he had been known for before he’d left.

“Oh, you’re the new assistant! Irene’s been raving about you.”

“She has?”

Molly nodded. “She was telling me just a couple of days ago how much more smoothly the shop works with you here. It’s been an absolute disaster since Mrs Hudson left… They’ve tried to keep it together, but that’s easier said than done of course. I offered to help once or twice but I’m afraid my organizational skills aren’t really what they should be and I think I only made it worse.” She smiled sheepishly.

“You tried, which is what matters.” He relaxed a little now that the uncomfortable part of the conversation had passed and turned back to the counter and his books. As he did, he noticed that the door to the back was open. Sherlock was standing there like he’d meant to come out into the room, but he was half-twisted so that he could speak to Lestrade. They were pressed so close together that John couldn’t help the spark of jealousy that tightened his gut.

Sherlock’s head turned, his eyes immediately seeking out John, drowning out the sound of Molly’s voice in the background.

“Sorry, what?” he asked, not looking away from Sherlock.

“I asked if you enjoyed working here.”

“It’s… it’s great.” Finally Sherlock let the door fall shut and John could look away. He did so instantly, turning his attention back to Molly. His stomach felt heavy. He hated the way that Sherlock was like a magnet, drawing John to him the second he entered a room. It was one of the reasons he had tried to keep his distance from Sherlock during the past few weeks, not that he was very successful. Sherlock seemed to delight in hanging around the shop long after it closed and Irene departed, leaving him and John the only occupants.

They rarely spoke during those times, but against his better judgement John would prop the door open and he’d listen to the sounds of Sherlock preparing his equipment for the next morning. Sometimes that would be all he heard, but once – just once – there had been a violin playing. The sound was so exquisite, so lovely and pure, that John had stopped working and just stood there listening in a daze until it stopped. He’d been extremely late getting back to the flat that night.

And when they did have occasion to speak, it was even worse. Sherlock could be cruel, deliberately so, in the way that he rattled off the deepest secrets of his clients like it was a game. But he was also impossibly clever and talented with both a needle and a bow, and he possessed a macabre sense of humour that matched with John’s perfectly. It wasn’t very often that you could find someone who would laugh at the idea of infection or skin rot. 

Plus the way he talked about the art of tattooing… it was astonishing. Just asking him a few questions was license enough for Sherlock to launch into detailed descriptions of the different kinds of tattoos and their colourful history – though he was careful to omit any mention of his own history. He just got so genuinely _excited_ about it all that it was impossible to walk away. Here was someone who genuinely adored what he did for a living, and that was so rare. John was envious, in part because he’d never felt about anything the way Sherlock felt about tattooing.

Sherlock was quickly becoming one of his favourite parts of the shop, and that worried John for reasons he did not want to think about.

“John?”

He jumped a little, nearly dropping his books on the floor. “Sorry, Molly. I guess I kind of zoned out on you there.”

Her lips tugged into a smile. “Guess now you know how a sentinel feels.”

John snorted at that, deciding that he would resume searching for the misplaced money tomorrow, and tucked his books away. “I somehow doubt that. When I have the kind of vision or hearing that Sherlock and Irene have, then maybe I’d know.”

Molly just kept looking at him for a few seconds. 

“What?”

“Do you like Sherlock?”

The question wasn’t as unexpected as it could have been. Even Irene had asked once or twice, like she was worried Sherlock would say something to offend John and he would stew in silence instead of standing up for himself. He told himself that was how Molly meant it, too, and shrugged. “Yeah, he’s okay.”

“That’s a better response than I usually get,” Molly said. “You know, I had a crush on him for the longest time.”

“Really?” He didn’t meant to sound sceptical, but he had a difficult time imagining the woman in front of him with Sherlock. She seemed so quiet, so gentle. Against Sherlock’s more abrasive personality, he couldn’t see that working out well. He realized too late, as he often did, that Molly would probably be able to sense his incredulity. He opened his mouth to apologize, but Molly shook her head.

“It’s okay. I know what you’re thinking and you’re right. I ended up meeting Irene instead. She and I are a much better match than Sherlock and I would have been. But Sherlock still doesn’t have a guide.”

John could see where this was going. He shook his head. “No. Even if I was ready for that, I’m not interested in being a third. That’s… too difficult.”

“It has good points,” Molly said quietly.

Instantly he put two and two together: Harry’s continued infatuation with Irene, coupled with an introduction of Molly as Irene’s _guide_ but not her mate, and felt like shit. It wasn’t unheard of for sentinels and guides to maintain a platonic relationship, particularly if their bond formed after one or both had been married. “God, Molly, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I get it, John. A lot of people think the same way. And someday when I find the right guy, I’ll be able to rub it in their faces.” She winked at him. “I’m just saying… maybe think about it.”

“Yeah,” John said, mostly because he felt like he’d made things awkward enough tonight. Nothing would ever happen between him and Sherlock; he wasn’t like that and Sherlock already had a boyfriend. Enough said.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my apologies for the late update; I wrote most of the chapter at work and forgot to email it to myself before leaving on Friday. I posted a note about it on my [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/) but I'm not sure everyone saw it - psst, if you didn't, it means you're not following me and you're missing out on my ~~lack of~~ awesomeness.

“You like him.”

John squinted down at the kitchen table for almost a full minute, a little confused as to why and how the wood had suddenly developed the ability to speak and sound like his older sister. By the time his brain woke up enough to clue in that it was actually Harry who was talking, she was already in the room and standing at the counter pouring herself a cup of tea. She turned around with a familiar, wicked smile and John fought the urge to groan. That smile _never_ meant anything good.

“It’s too early for this,” he mumbled, propping his chin on his hand and blinking heavily. Sleep had not come easily to him during the past week, though for once the culprit wasn’t solely nightmares. In spite of his best attempts to put aside his conversation with Molly, parts of it continued to nag at him. He wondered how Harry felt about Molly and Irene.

“That’s your own fault for staying up too late,” Harry said logically, slinging herself into a chair and crossing one leg over the other. She eyed him for a moment, as though judging how quick his reaction time was likely to be, and then reached over to snag his plate, dragging it closer and surveying the remains of two eggs, toast and bacon with a greedy smirk. John tilted his head and watched as she forked up some of his eggs. He felt like he should steal it back, but that would require more effort than he could dredge up. All he could muster was a weak protest.

“That’s mine.”

“Sharing is good,” Harry said, licking her lips.

“You didn’t feel that way when we were kids.”

She shrugged. “Anyway, you like him.”

“Him who?” he asked blankly, even though he suspected that he knew exactly who she was referring to. He was half-hoping that she would realize he was deliberately giving her an out and be courteous enough to take it, but then again this was Harry. She was stubborn enough not to take the hint.

“Sherlock.”

Dread prickled down John’s spine and he hid his wince with a sip of lukewarm tea. “Harry, I really don’t want to talk about this.”

“Tough, because we’re going to. All I’m saying is, it’s not a bad idea. I like living with you, but you need a sentinel. Sherlock doesn’t have a guide. Plus, he’s an asshole but he’s exactly the kind of asshole you’d get along with. Trust me, I know your type better than you do. And he’s pretty easy on the eyes.”

“You’re _gay_.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t have eyes. I can appreciate beauty in any form, thank you very much.”

John rolled his eyes. “Harry, come on. Sherlock and I aren’t even friends.”

“Whose fault is that?” She pointed her fork at him across the table. “Seriously, you guys were chummy for a while there but in the past week you've backed way off. Everyone’s noticed, which means Sherlock has too. I’m not trying to tell you how to live your life or anything, but I’m thinking that your grand collection of therapists would think it’s good for you to be making friends outside of the family. Especially with an unbonded sentinel. Can’t he, like, ground you or whatever?”

The arguments that had been building on his tongue while she was prattling on died a quick death, and he ended up dropping his gaze instead. Technically, she had a point. Right now, John was damaged. His shields were crap and weren’t strong enough to protect himself, never mind pull a zoned sentinel back to themselves. But being around an unbonded sentinel would give him a point of focus and hopefully help him to relax enough to let the healing happen. 

Like it or not, he needed a sentinel. He’d never feel whole again without one, not after how his bond with Bill had changed him. He just didn’t think he was ready for that yet. Losing Bill in combination with his own wounds had nearly killed him, and the only reason he’d survived was that their bond hadn't run deeply enough. Another couple years, though, and it might well have. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose a sentinel that was also a lover; he could understand why guides didn’t usually survive.

Harry was watching him closely as all those thoughts tumbled through his head, and now she leaned forward. “It doesn’t have to be anything more if you don’t want it to,” she said gently. “But you do know that if you _did_ want more, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Okay, now he really didn’t want to talk about it. John jumped up and dropped his mug in the sink. He grabbed his jacket and cane and practically fled the flat, ignoring the fact that Harry was yelling his name loudly enough to disturb all of her neighbours. She would be pissed and he’d probably pay for it later, but in the meantime he figured it was worthwhile to put the conversation off for even a few hours.

It was late enough that the morning crowds were dispersed, but early enough that John had no trouble making his way to the shop. They typically didn’t open until noon, with the exception of Saturday. John didn’t mind. After years of getting up early every day for the army, it was nice to be able to get up and have a leisurely breakfast. Or at least, it had been nice right up until his sister started stealing his breakfast and chasing him out of the flat. 

The shop was quiet when he unlocked the front door, being that it was just after eleven, but that wasn’t a bad thing. Sometimes it was hard to focus on the books when there were a lot of people coming in and out. His belief that he was alone turned out to be misguided, though. As he took off his jacket and stuck it behind the counter, he heard the sweet sound of a violin.

John froze, not even daring to breathe as the lovely music spilled through the crack in the door and into the front of the shop. It sounded unbearably sad, the sort of music that you would expect to be played at a funeral, for a minute or two before it noticeably lightened. And as the cadence shifted, John exhaled and squeezed his eyes shut. All of the tension from his earlier fight with Harry was completely gone, forgotten in the wake of such hauntingly beautiful sounds. He wanted to listen to it forever.

Quietly, he got his books out and took up his place at the counter. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock knew that he was there and he didn’t want Sherlock to stop. It was amazing to think that one person could have the kind of hands that produced such amazing tattoos and music. He was, for a split second, filled with envy as he looked down at his own hands. At one time his fingers had proven steady enough to wield a scalpel, but now there were times when they couldn’t even be trusted to hold a pen.

Sherlock played on for several minutes while John tried to concentrate, though more often than not he got lost in the music and his work lay forgotten. He had never been close enough to Sherlock to be able to watch the man while he was playing, but he found himself wishing that he could. He suspected that the harsh lines of Sherlock’s body would soften, because no one would played so beautifully would be capable of anything but caressing their instrument like a lover. He pictured the look on Sherlock’s face, the smile that would be on his lips, and found himself short of breath again.

Suddenly, right as the music climbed to a crescendo, it stopped.

He waited, aimlessly drawing a little stick figure, for the music to begin again. But as the seconds ticked by and it didn’t, he grew concerned. He stood up and nudged the door open further, venturing a cautious, “Sherlock?”

Working at the shop had taught him that it wasn’t uncommon for Sherlock to become so deeply entrenched in what he was doing that he didn’t hear when someone was speaking to him. God knew Sherlock lost himself in tattoos. It wouldn’t have been surprising if music was no different. Still, John couldn’t help stepping into the corridor and moving towards Sherlock’s office. The door was wide open, which gave him a view of the man sitting on the floor.

“Sherlock!” he exclaimed, louder this time. He knelt awkwardly, wincing as the pain in his thigh tightened and flared. Sherlock’s head was down, and when John reached out and gently tipped his chin up he saw that Sherlock’s eyes were dilated. His mouth was hanging open a little and his hands were still wrapped securely around his violin and bow. He didn’t react to John touching him at all.

“Fuck,” John said under his breath. There were plenty of things that could have caused this, but John had his suspicions. They were confirmed when Sherlock flinched like John had yelled at the top of his voice. He must have missed Sherlock’s reaction to his voice before in his difficulty in getting to his knees, because there was no mistaking this: a zone. It had probably happened because Sherlock was concentrating a little too hard on the melody of the music.

He tentatively set a hand on Sherlock’s upper back, not so close to his neck that he would feel threatened but high enough that it might register. He was almost positive that this had happened before. About a week ago, right before he met Molly, Sherlock had been in the middle of a tattoo when the girl started yelling. John had jumped up and rushed into the back, nearly tripping over Harry in his haste. Irene had still reached Sherlock’s room before both of them, and she’d ushered the client out and closed the door in all of their faces. 

It was rare for someone other than a guide to be able to pull a sentinel out of a zone, but it was possible. He wished he knew what Irene had done. He thought about calling her, but his mobile was still tucked into the pocket of his jacket and leaving Sherlock was _not_ an option. There was a certain window in which a sentinel could be pulled out of a zone, and if it wasn’t done in that span of time the sentinel’s mind could splinter entirely.

Swallowing hard, he tipped his head against Sherlock’s. “Can you hear me, Sherlock?” he whispered. “It’s me, John. John Watson. We work at the shop together.”

His heart pounded a little harder when he realized that his words were now getting no reaction at all. He tried again, this time speaking a little louder.

“Sherlock, come on. You’ve got appointments in two hours, right? I don’t want to have to be the one to tell Irene that you can’t work.”

Nothing. John chewed his lower lip, swearing internally. Even though he knew it was a mistake, he slowly let what remained of his tattered shields fall. Raw emotion flooded him and he gasped for breath, shaking at the onslaught. He’d been getting better, and he’d almost forgotten what it was like to be so overwhelmed. His voice trembled, barely audible, when he fought to speak. But this time, his every word reverberated with a pitiful trickle of power.

“Sherlock, _please_. Don’t do this. You’re so amazing. I can’t bear the thought of your mind being destroyed, and I don’t know what the shop would do without you. I don’t know what Irene would do, or... or me. You have to pull yourself out of this. Come on. You need to come back so that you can go on creating amazing tattoos. They’re so gorgeous. I’ve never seen anything like them. Please.” He kept talking, whatever he could think of, and cut off with a shocked yelp when Sherlock suddenly rose up and crushed John against him.

“W-what…” he stammered, trailing off as a nose nuzzled against his throat. Bill had done this a few times, during the worst of his zones. It was a way of reaffirming the imprint. He went still, even though he should’ve been squirming away because there was nothing there between him and Sherlock to reaffirm, because Sherlock's grip was so warm and strong.

“John,” Sherlock said after a couple minutes, and his voice was hoarse but steady.

“I… yes?”

“I want to give you a new tattoo.”


	9. Chapter 9

Saying no to a new tattoo from Sherlock would’ve been the wiser choice to make. After all, Sherlock was the first sentinel that John had ever been in close proximity to while he was vulnerable. He’d been nervous about the tattoo and, though he was loathe to admit it, scared about being sent to Afghanistan, and there was an excellent chance he'd been unconsciously seeking comfort. John had to admit that at the time he might have opened himself up a little more than he should have, though of course not to the point where he was prevented from bonding with Bill.

Still. Pulling Sherlock out of that zone hadn’t done anything to improve the situation. The difference should have been subtle, but to someone who had spent the last few months fighting just to get a moment’s peace from the constant bombardment of human emotion, it was enormous. When he was in close proximity to Sherlock, John felt better. He felt _shielded_ , like there was a thin barrier between him and everyone else. It wasn’t even close to what Bill had done for him, but given time spent together intimately…

He closed his eyes briefly and sighed, letting his head thud none too gently against the window. He was standing outside the dress shop that was just two spaces down from the parlour, trying to dredge up the courage to go inside. For a man whose skills were in incredible demand Sherlock had come up with an appointment that was much sooner than John really felt ready for, barely a week after the fact. Particularly when he knew that the smart thing to do would’ve been to call in and say he changed his mind, and then just walk away.

Because he couldn’t do this. Not with Sherlock. Not without it going to places that John didn’t think he could ever be okay with. Sure it would mean upsetting Harry and leaving a job that he actually enjoyed, and he would have to pretty much cut ties with Sherlock and Irene and Molly, but that would be the smart thing to do.

It was a shame that every instinct in his body rebelled against that.

“Why did I do this to myself,” he muttered, punctuating each word with another thud. He was so confused and he had no one to talk to. He hadn’t told anyone what happened, though the scrutinizing look Irene had given him the next morning suggested that Sherlock had filled her in. And to be honest, John didn’t want to. He had his suspicions about what Harry would say, and going to talk to Ella about it seemed redundant. She’d pushed him enough about sentinels during previous sessions for him to know what her response would be.

When he checked his phone, he saw the clock read 9:02am. Which meant that he was now officially late. He set his jaw and marched down the pavement towards the shop, deciding that he’d poke his head in the door and let Sherlock know he’d changed his mind. That resolve lasted right up until he got to the door of Sherlock’s room – because of course, Sherlock hadn’t bothered to respond to John calling his name from the front – and saw that everything was ready.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder from where he was standing beside the cabinet where he kept the majority of his supplies. If he was at all nervous, it did not show. His purple shirt and black jeans were perfectly pressed, and he looked as calm and composed as though he were about to tattoo a random client. “Close the door, John. And take off your jeans.”

“Bossy,” John muttered, but found himself obeying. There was something calming about Sherlock's forceful nature that eased his nerves. He instantly felt a little better with the door shut and he took his jacket off, though he still hesitated to remove his jeans. “Why exactly am I taking off my clothing?”

“For your tattoo,” Sherlock said very slowly, as though he was an idiot. John narrowed his eyes at the tone and scowled as he thumbed the button open. Sherlock turned away as he pulled his jeans down, kicking his shoes off and stepping out. He folded his jeans and draped them over the sofa with his jacket, feeling a little silly standing there in just his t-shirt, boxers and socks. And no matter what Sherlock said, he was not prepared to take off anything else.

He linked his hands behind his back and waited for Sherlock to finish, his racing heart slowly easing to a pace that didn't make him feel like he was going to throw up. It was strange. It felt like it had been at least a century, if not more, since he had last stood in this position waiting for Sherlock to give him a tattoo. And yet it hadn't been nearly that long. He wondered idly, as Sherlock finished prepping his station, whether he would've still gone to Afghanistan if he knew then what he did now. 

"Are you nearly ready?" he asked finally, certain that at least five minutes had passed. His anxiety all but gone, he found that he was getting bored. And cold. Irene kept the shop chilly.

Grey-blue eyes flickered in his direction, a quick up-and-down that John was, by now, familiar with. Sherlock cocked his head slightly as though listening to something before he said, "Yes, but you'll have to be horizontal for the placement of this one. Lay on your back on the table."

John frowned as he stepped forward. A sentinel's senses were fantastic, far beyond the range of the normal human, so there was no way for him to tell exactly what Sherlock had just been listening to. But he had a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock had been eavesdropping on his heart rate. Did he really need to fiddle with his station for so long, or had he deliberately been wasting time so that John would have the extra few minutes he needed to calm down a bit?

There was no use asking Sherlock, of course, because even if that was the case Sherlock was hardly going to tell him. He hopped up onto the table, which was specially designed to be elevated to make it more comfortable for someone of Sherlock's height, and swung his legs up so that he could stretch out. Even with the thin layer of disposable material acting as a barrier, the table was freezing against his back and he shivered a little. 

Sherlock sat down beside him, pulling his chair up and scooting close so that he was leaning right over John's lower body. John jumped when he felt the initial touch against his right hip that turned into fingers sliding beneath the waistband of his boxers and gently rolling it down. He might have protested but for the fact that he could tell that nothing untoward had been uncovered and Sherlock's fingers were briskly business-like, not lingering, disappearing and then returning just as fast with a wipe to sterilize the area. 

He lifted his head just enough to be able to look down his body at the area Sherlock had focused on. It was just above his hip on the bottom of his ribcage, completely different from the location of his last tattoo. He wasn't sure whether he should be disappointed about that or not. At least with the last tattoo, it had been in a place that wasn't overly intimate. He was perfectly fine with Sherlock bending over his back for hours on end. This, though... this had the potential to be troublesome.

"Your boxers are going to be ruined," Sherlock intoned, and John blinked up at him in surprise before his mouth quirked into a smile. Sherlock sounded like he was reciting something out of an instruction manual. He had to wonder how many people had come through this experience with stained clothing before Sherlock had been ordered to start saying something about it.

"That's fine," he said, not bothering to admit that, even though he'd come here telling himself that it was with the purpose of cancelling, he had deliberately showered that morning and then put on a pair of clean boxers that were old but in good shape. He had to roll his eyes at himself then. If nothing else, he was very good at denial.

"Alright. Hold still and don't move. I'm going to apply the outline." Sherlock's hands were so very gentle as he pressed the thin sheet of paper against John's flesh, holding it in place until the ink had completely transferred. He peeled it off and then studied the drawing with a critical eye for several long seconds. 

"Does it look okay?" John asked, craning his neck again.

Sherlock's head snapped around and he huffed, none too politely putting the palm of his hand to John's forehead and shoving his head back down. "You know the rules; you don't get to see what it looks like until I'm finished. If you can't abide, I'm not above strapping you down."

A chill ran down John's spine and this time it had pitifully little to do with the temperature of the room. His throat felt too swollen to force a response and so he settled for a meek nod, desperately attempting to think of something - anything - but being tied down at Sherlock's mercy. The idea was both frightening and thrilling in equal measure, made even more so because there was a part of him that desperately wanted it.

That part didn't care that Sherlock was a man, or that John didn't know if he was ready for another sentinel. It just _wanted_.

If Sherlock noticed his distress, he made no mention of it. His attention was already focused on the process of the tattoo. He picked up his gun and switched it on, and the familiar buzz made John draw in a sharp breath of anticipation. He'd grown used to hearing it during his time at the shop, but it was a lot different when he could also see it being held less than a foot from his body. Then Sherlock lowered his hand, and John couldn't see it either.

He tensed at the bite of the needle, realizing that his mind had done an excellent job of lessening the memory of the pain over time. Or maybe the place Sherlock had chosen was more sensitive this time. Either way, the prickly sting shot deep and he gritted his teeth. It was nothing compared to the pain of being shot, of course, but this was slow and deliberate, Sherlock's free hand stretching the cleaned skin like a canvas, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he worked.

Realizing that he'd been holding his breath when his lungs ached, John breathed out and then back in. That helped a little. He forced himself to relax and focus on Sherlock's face and the minute changes in expression as the artist worked. Sherlock was actually very expressive, though it didn't take John long to know that it required a close study to understand. His forehead wrinkled when he didn't like how something was turning out. His mouth would twitch when he did. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes would deepen during a particularly tricky bit, and he would lick his lips in satisfaction when he succeeded.

John watched him and drifted, the pain receding until it was distant and manageable. He fancied he could feel Sherlock's heartbeat through their slim point of contact and unconsciously began to breathe in tune with him, inhaling and exhaling at the same time. The tension drained from him for real this time, without conscious intervention on his part, and in turn Sherlock relaxed as well. He even glanced up briefly, their eyes meeting, and gave a tiny smile.

Christ. The way his heart skipped in direct relation to that smile was a bit not good. John couldn't make himself look away even though he knew that he should, especially when the pressure of his shields eased. Alone, it was a little like trying to hide behind flimsy shields of sand. The granules of his fractured shields slipped through his fingers and it only got worse the more he fought to use them. But around a sentinel - around _Sherlock_ \- it was more like mud, still pitiable but more easily maintained.

Given time with the right sentinel, his shields could be as strong as diamond.

Given time with _this_ sentinel...

He closed his eyes and clenched his fingers in the fabric underneath him, doing his level best not to let on that he was affected by this in any way. Shit, he was in trouble.


	10. Chapter 10

When the buzzing stopped there was a very long few seconds of silence before Sherlock's shaky exhale echoed through the room. Then it was like that one little sound broke through John's calm, almost meditative state.

Later, he wouldn't really remember leaving. It was like there was a disassociation between his mind and body. He blanked out completely, wasn't even sure that he conveyed his gratitude for the tattoo - couldn't have even said whether or not he bothered to say good-bye in his mad rush to get out of the room. When he clued in again, he was standing outside on the pavement. It was raining and he was clutching his shoes and his jacket in his arms, though - thank god - he was wearing his jeans.

The last thing he needed was to get arrested for public indecency. Knowing his luck, he'd end up talking to Lestrade.

He fumbled for his phone with hands that shook and sent a quick text to Harry telling her that he was ill and wouldn't be coming in that day. The thought of going back inside the shop to face Sherlock and pretend like nothing was happening was unbearable. His face flushed with embarrassment and shame every time he even thought about it. He couldn't believe how foolish he'd been to put himself back into that situation. There was something about Sherlock that kept him from being able to keep his guard up the way he wanted to, and that meant he needed to keep his distance until he figured out what to do about the sheer _possibility_ lingering between them.

And so it went that John Watson, the guide who'd been brave enough to go to Afghanistan as a doctor, called in sick for the next three days and holed up in his room at his sister's house like the coward he believed he was. He refused to answer the door for Harry when she knocked and ignored her when she tried to talk at him through the door. The unread text messages and un-listened to voice mails were building up on his phone, most of them from Harry and Irene, but John just didn't want to hear it. 

He wasn't gay. It didn't matter that his stomach tightened uncomfortably around Sherlock, or that he couldn't stop himself from watching Sherlock's mouth or his eyes when the man talked. He _wasn't_. John had been with plenty of girls in the past. He'd almost been married at one point; Mary, his girlfriend when he was seventeen, had been someone he'd wanted to spend the rest of his life with. Had they attended the same university, they would probably still be together now. But she'd wanted to travel, and last John had heard she'd ended up somewhere in Japan.

Remembering Mary's blue eyes, her soft blonde hair and curves, was still enough to make a little jolt of arousal shoot through him. So there, not gay. Just... confused. The doctors had warned him that being left without a sentinel would be difficult for him, and Sherlock was the first unbonded sentinel he'd ever really spent time with. It was the guide in him trying to get close to a sentinel and nothing more... so what he needed to do was contact Ella, because she'd told him about all manner of ways that he could meet unbonded, female sentinels. And that would solve his problem. In the meantime, he just needed to keep his distance from Sherlock until he was more clearheaded.

It would have been a hell of a lot easier to do that if he and Sherlock didn't work together, and if he didn't feel guilty about calling in sick when the shop obviously needed him. Reluctantly, on the fourth morning, he dragged himself out of bed after Harry left the flat and got cleaned up. He continued his habit of washing and moisturizing his new tattoo without looking at the ink, not wanting to see what Sherlock had given him, and then got dressed. It took a lot more effort than it usually did and he was exhausted by the time he was actually ready to go. He had to force himself to leave.

The tattoo parlour was empty when he walked in the front door. John scowled when he took in the state of the front desk, which hadn't looked this bad in ages. Not since he'd taken over. His carefully tended appointment book was sprawled all over the place, pages falling out and covered in crossed out notes and scribbles. He muttered a few frustrated curses under his breath as he gathered the pages into a messy pile, realizing that he would need to recopy most of them. From the looks of it, Harry had taken her temper out on him by being as disorganized as possible. 

"Bloody Harry," he mumbled, cringing at the sight of one of Irene's pages. She hadn't even used the right colour ink. 

"I would think you'd be a little more pleased with her, seeing as how she covered for you while you were out."

John jumped, nearly knocking over the stack all over again. He hadn't even heard Irene's approach, but there she was standing not two feet behind him. She was as dressed up as ever, though this time her hair was down around her shoulders and face instead of up in the severe bun she typically favoured. He frowned a little at that, taking closer note of the light bruising under her eyes which was still visible even with the make-up she'd carefully applied. Even her clothing wasn't up to the usual standard, a pair of tight-fitting jeans and a simple sweater instead of the sexier apparel Harry was such a big fan of - though she was still wearing a pair of four inch heels. Heels, he noticed a bit nervously, that were more than capable of doing some damage.

"Irene," he began, not that he was entirely sure what he was going to say. As it turned out, it didn't really matter.

"Here's what I don't get," Irene said, steamrolling right over him like he hadn't even spoken. "If you didn't want the job, if you really didn't want to be around Sherlock, you were free to walk out of here at any moment. I wouldn't have kept you here if I thought that you two weren't compatible, or that you didn't want this, because it was kind of inevitable that something would happen. And I realize that it's not really my business, except that Sherlock is my friend and you've been jerking him around with your mixed signals and I'm sick of watching what it does to him."

“My mixed signals?” John repeated, torn between being baffled and insulted. “Look, I can’t help the fact that my shields are broken.”

“No, but you keep reaching out to Sherlock. You pulled him out of a zone. For God’s sake, John, the two of you are halfway to being bonded! I know you’ve been bonded before so maybe you can handle floundering around in this midway point, but Sherlock hasn’t. He can’t.”

Something about the way she said that made him go cold, and he suddenly became very conscious of how quiet the shop was. “What do you mean? Where is Sherlock?”

“He’s at home,” Irene said, crossing her arms over her chest and glaring at him. “You should know better than this, John. Sherlock in his mid-twenties. Most sentinels don’t make it to their thirties without bonding, particularly if they don’t have family or friends for support. I do what I can, but one person is just not enough. It was going to be difficult enough for Sherlock to find a guide before, but now that there’s _this_ whole fiasco… I don’t even know if the Centre would be capable of helping him.” She shook her head, and for the first time John saw that she was afraid.

Not that he blamed her. He knew the basics about guides and sentinels the way that pretty much everyone did; there were some things you couldn't grow up without learning. But some of the finer details, the things he would’ve learned at the Centre, had escaped him, and he didn’t always think about the world the way he was supposed to. In this case, he was aware that most sentinels who didn’t bond by their thirties slipped into a zone, but he had never put two and two together and come up with a chilling four.

He felt sick to his stomach for an entirely different reason now. “What about Lestrade?” he asked a little desperately. “I know he’s not a guide, but surely he’s close enough to Sherlock to anchor him.”

“Greg and Sherlock aren’t that close.”

John gave her a funny look. “Aren’t they dating?”

The look on Irene’s face was priceless. It was the first time he’d ever seen her so shocked. “Dating? Greg and Sherlock?” And then she started laughing.

He just stared at her, even more confused. Irene cackled for a good two minutes and had to wipe tears of mirth away when she was done. “Oh my lord, could you imagine? Greg would kill him within a week. No, you idiot, Greg is a detective inspector working for the met and Sherlock is one of his consultants. He’s been working on a case lately where he requires Sherlock’s help. Besides, Greg is married.”

“Oh,” John said quietly, trying to get his mind around this. No matter what Irene claimed, the two of them had to at least be friends. But she did have a point: he’d never seen them kiss or embrace, or do any of the other things he typically associated with couples. He bit his lip, knowing that he was blushing, and mumbled, “But… Molly and I were talking about being a third, and…”

“She thought that _you_ were married.”

He didn’t remember giving Molly any ideas that might lead her to think that, but it wasn't like it mattered. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t know that about Sherlock and Lestrade. But it doesn’t change anything.”

Irene’s eyes hardened. “Doesn’t it? I know you like Sherlock. 

“I’m not in –” His automatic protest got cut off by a lifted hand.

“You might not be in love with him yet, but you’re more than halfway there,” Irene said sharply. “I know exactly what this is about because I’ve seen it happen a hundred times. Even if you and Sherlock were human, it wouldn’t matter that you’re both men. But the fact that you’re sentinel and guide makes it even more of a moot point. Don’t let something as stupid as what other people say stop you from being happy.”

That was easy enough for Irene to say. John had never had a problem with people who were gay, but in relation to himself? “I’m not gay.”

“There is such a thing as bisexuality,” she said, rolling her eyes. “If you don’t want Sherlock, that’s fine. I’m not going to force either of you into this. But if you do, and that’s the only thing holding you back from having _everything_ with him, you’re a fucking idiot, John Watson. Because most guides and sentinels go their whole lives _praying_ they’ll find a compatible mate that they want in every way, not just to bond. If you throw that away for something as ridiculous as this…”

She let her voice trail off meaningfully and gave him one last pointed look. “Don’t bother coming in today. I’m closing the shop and rescheduling the clients. You need to go see Sherlock. Whatever you decide, you need to make it perfectly clear.”

Irene was a formidable woman when she was upset, to the point that John found himself nodding meekly and exiting the shop without argument. He glanced over his shoulder as the door closed behind him. His heart was pounding again and he didn’t know what to do.


	11. Chapter 11

“So I hear you’ve been holding out on me.”

John didn’t jump, but he didn’t look up at his sister either. He continued to stare at the fountain not ten feet away. To anyone who walked by, he would’ve looked like he was mesmerized by the way the water arched into the air, giving off a light mist that was nice relief from the hot sun, before falling in a graceful stream to the ground. But in reality, his mind was so preoccupied that he wasn’t even paying attention. He could’ve been staring at an empty road or the side of a truck for all he cared.

Harry gave an affronted sigh at the lack of reaction and plopped herself down. She was dressed like she’d been planning to head into work, which suggested that she’d already talked to Irene. But she was also clutching a cardboard tray bearing two coffees and a little white bakery bag that smelled delicious. John turned his head slowly, eyeing her until she pried one of the cups free and thrust it in his direction. The steam wafting up smelled of spice and cinnamon, and John took it.

Apparently deciding that was as good as permission to talk, Harry picked right up on the very topic he did not want to discuss. “You’re not straight, are you? I mean, I did always wonder.”

“You have _not_.”

“Hate to break it to you, bro, but yeah, I have. I know you’ve always gone for the girls, but my gaydar has fabulous sense and it lights up around like a 60 watt bulb.” She paused, staring at him contemplatively as she tore the pastry bag open. “Well, okay, maybe more like a 40 watt bulb. Like I said, you always were more for the girls than the boys. Gotta give credit where it’s due.”

In spite of himself, he snorted, unable to keep from cracking a slight smile. As annoying as Harry could be sometimes, her attitude was one of the things that he’d missed the most after she got so lost in her drinking. “I’m not gay, Harry. Or… whatever that other thing was. I don’t look at guys that way.”

“Maybe not, but you look Sherlock that way,” Harry pointed out. “Bisexualism _is_ a thing, John, and there’s nothing wrong with it. You don’t have to be all one way or all the other way. Some people swing right down the middle. Some people are mostly one way except for certain situations or people. Sexuality is fluid. You don’t get to draw a straight line and call it a day. That’s not how it works.”

He sighed, dropping his head and staring at the ground. “I’ve never thought of myself that way,” he confessed quietly, displeased at the way his voice cracked a bit. “It’s never really… been an issue before.”

“But it has happened.”

John remained silent, but that didn’t stop his memory from persistently drumming up a couple moments from university. Against his better judgement, he had got drunk a few times, usually at the insistence of his roommates, and then gone out for a party. He could remember looking men appreciatively, even flirting once or twice so long as no one was around to see. But when the buzz wore off and he woke up sober the next day, he usually chalked it up to the alcohol and forced himself not to think any more about it. 

And then there was the army, where the word _gay_ was pretty much unheard of. Sure times were beginning to change and would hopefully continue to do so, but right now it was still very much a straight man’s land. Guide and sentinel or not, if he and Bill had actually fallen in love it probably would’ve caused more than a few problems. Not from their superiors, because sentinels with the guides to back them up were rare and valuable, but from their comrades. 

Fortunately Bill was already married to a wonderful woman, and while he was interested in having a guide he had made it clear from the moment that he and John met that he loved his wife very much. She was the one who had kept him sane over the years, preventing him from slipping into a zone even though he was in his early forties, and he was determined that having a guide would not keep him from being faithful. 

John was fine with that. Really, he was. If anything, it made it easier for him and Bill to blend in. Men in the army formed close friendships all the time, and John could mourn the loss of a gorgeous woman’s company as well as the next man. God only knew how many hours he’d lost doing just that. Entertaining himself with one of the men surrounding him had never entered his mind, not even Bill – and if anyone should’ve tempted him, it would’ve been his sentinel. But was that because of the circumstances or because he was as straight as he claimed?

It bothered him that he didn’t know.

“John?” Harry pressed gently, after several minutes had gone by and he still hadn't formed an answer. “John, it’s okay, you know. Like I said, there’s nothing wrong with being gay. Or bisexual. Or whatever the hell you want to call yourself. God, for that matter you don’t have to call yourself anything at all. It's not necessary to put labels on everything. All that really matters is whether you want something with Sherlock."

"I don't know," John whispered. Realizing that Harry looked a little confused, he cleared his throat and repeated louder, "I don't know. I never really let myself... and now that I kind of have, I can't tell if I like Sherlock or if it's the guide side of me that just wants to be close to a sentinel. Maybe any sentinel would do."

"You don't feel that way about Irene."

"Irene's different. She's bonded."

"Yeah, but you thought Sherlock was bonded too," Harry pointed out. She scooted a little bit closer and wrapped an arm around his shoulders, leaning against him. After a moment, John shifted and put his own arm around her waist to make it a little more comfortable. Harry was very warm against him. He couldn't remember the last time that they had been this close when she wasn't drunk off her arse.

"I'm reluctant to rush into anything," he said finally. "It's not like... with Sherlock and me, it would be permanent. I couldn't bond with him without mating too. It just wouldn't work. And that's forever."

"So what you're saying is, I wouldn't have to worry about another messy divorce."

He had to laugh a little at the wry, bittersweet comment. Harry and Clara had never been married, but they might as well have been. Their break-up had certainly been devastating enough to qualify as far as he was concerned. "No, not in the slightest. We'd be a packaged deal for the rest of our lives. That's how it works; when the bond runs that deep, there's no coming back from it."

"You seem to be okay without Bill," she said cautiously.

"Bill was... I didn't love him, Harry. He was my friend. We went to war together, and our bond was forged through battle. That's pretty much as major as it gets in that situation. But he already had a wife, and he didn't want anything else. So yes we were bonded and losing him nearly destroyed me, but it was..." John trailed off, struggling to find words that could make her understand. It was impossible. At their very core, sentinels and guides were so different from humans and he didn't know how to explain. 

"It's not what you would have with Sherlock," Harry filled in, and she just made it sound so _simple_. "John, it sounds like you're just scared."

"I am _not_ -"

"Would you listen to me? Cripes, it's okay to be scared. There's nothing wrong with that, even if it does put a chink in your macho armour. Just like it's okay to be gay. You might be a guide but you're also still a human, you know. You have feelings just like the rest of us. And I know that when Clara and I first moved in together, I was terrified. I managed to hide it for the most part, but that doesn't mean I didn't feel it. And I'm still terrified now, when it comes to me and Irene."

"But you and Clara broke up, and even if things went bad between you and Irene... I won't have that option to walk away. If Sherlock and I did this and we ended up hating each other, it doesn't matter. We're still stuck together." Even just saying it out loud was enough to make a fresh burst of panic lance through him.

"Jesus, John, all that means is that you two actually have to work things out." Harry shook her head. "Obviously you don't have to do this. But the fact that you're sitting here agonizing over it tells me that you actually do want this. Otherwise you wouldn't have bothered."

John opened his mouth, intending to give her some sort of response, but instead he found that all of his words had unexpectedly dried up. Because Harry was right. He considered Sherlock a friend and had for some time now. There was just something about the man that John found it hard to dislike. Maybe it was because of the tattoo he got before he went to war, or maybe it was just because of the person that Sherlock was. Maybe it was a mixture of both. Bottom line was, he was sitting here wrestling with himself because this was something he really did want. He just didn't know if he could be okay with letting himself have it or dealing with the way people would look at him now.

However, while being with Sherlock would drastically change the way he thought about himself whether he liked it or not, even if he decided against it and never saw Sherlock again he would still have this incident to deal with. His feelings for Sherlock, regardless of how he decided to label them, were not going to magically vanish. Even if he did find a female sentinel who was as good a fit for him as Sherlock was, that didn't erase the fact that he'd found himself attracted to and wanting to be with another man. Not unless he took all of that and stuffed it into a little box in the corner of his mind and decided that he was never going to think about it again. Though now that Harry knew, he doubted she would ever let him forget it even if he tried.

He sighed and dropped his head into his hands, coming to the sudden realization that he'd known what he was going to do all along. He'd just needed someone to sit down beside him and prod him into it. And Harry had done that. He looked up at her as she stuffed a huge bite of chocolate biscuit into her mouth and asked, "Are you happy with Irene, Harry?"

Harry seemed surprised by the change of subject, but once she had swallowed she answered readily. "Yeah, I am. I like her a lot. She reminds me of Clara in some ways, but not so much that I feel suffocated."

"What about Molly? Doesn't it bother you that the two of them are bonded?"

"I dealt with my jealousy over that whole thing a long time ago, John," Harry said quietly, leaning backwards and letting her arm drop so that she could give him a not so gentle punch in the shoulder. "I came to terms with just being a human when I was a kid. Meeting Molly and Irene doesn't change that. Besides, they were bonded long before I came into the picture. It would be stupid for me to have a problem with it when Irene's already told me there's room for me." She narrowed her eyes. "And quit trying to change the subject."

"I'm not," John said, rolling his eyes, though admittedly he was a little. He bounced his knee and fidgeted. "I guess I need to figure out where Sherlock lives."

"Why?" Harry demanded instantly. 

"Because this isn't really a decision I can make on my own. It takes two to mate, you know."

Her smile was blinding. She grabbed his hand. "I know where he lives. I'll text you the location. Go get him, bro."

"Thanks Harry," John said, pausing just long enough to kiss her on the cheek before he got up. He wasn't even bothered by the fact that she yelled after him.

"Have lots of fun gay sex!"


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the wait, guys. My contract ended and I was at my parent's house, and then when I finally got home I caught a cold that's making me so damn _tired_. I also had a really hard time with this chapter. /excuses

John took the tube to the address that Harry had given him, which turned out to be a wise decision. It gave him a few minutes of reprieve to just sit and fully come to terms with what he was about to do. The last thing that he wanted to do was bond with Sherlock and then wake up the next morning and freak out. That wouldn't be fair to either one of them. This was an enormous step and Sherlock deserved for him to be as fully committed beforehand as John could be.

He left the tube and walked the rest of the short distance on foot, finding himself on the doorstep of a very nice London flat. There was no doubt that he was in the right place; the weather-worn 221B that was nailed to the front door made that clear. He leaned against the railing and stared thoughtfully at the door for a moment, trying to ignore how weak his knees felt now that he was actually here. He'd been a soldier for god's sake. There was no reason why he should be acting so cowardly.

Except that whatever he chose to do next would change his life. John knew that better than possibly anyone, considering some of the life altering decisions that he had made in the past. There would be no going back once he crossed that threshold and Sherlock realized he was there; leaving without seeing him at that point would be as good as a rejection. He wasn't sure how long he had been standing there for, before the front door opened and an elderly woman stepped outside.

"Oh," she said once she had turned around, looking a little surprised to see him. "Can I help you?"

John just stared at her, and after a moment she smiled.

"Are you here to see Sherlock?" she asked in a much gentler tone of voice, resting his hand on the rail as she moved carefully down the steps. "I should tell you that he doesn't really do that sort of thing anymore, dear. But if you really need to speak with him, he is upstairs and you can go right in. Don't mind the hideous noise; he gets like that sometimes." She gave him a pat on the arm. "And I'll be out for a while, so, whatever you two want to discuss, you can have some privacy."

"What?" John said, bewildered and wondering just what it was she thought he was there to do. 

"It's alright. Go ahead," she repeated with another pat.

His legs moved of their own accord then, carrying him up the steps and into the flat. John closed the door behind him automatically, realizing instantly what she'd meant with her remark about the noise. Sherlock was playing his violin, but there was none of the beautiful, sweet music that John had grown accustomed to at the shop. Instead, it sounded like Sherlock was up there murdering some poor cat very slowly. The high-pitched shrieking was enough to make the hair on his arms stand up straight.

Uneasy, he walked slowly to the steps and started to mount them. But by the time he got to the top, he was running. He couldn't help remembering everything that Irene had implied about Sherlock's state of mind. What if this was a result of the fact that they hadn't bonded yet, and Sherlock's senses were starting to go on him? He'd seen it happen before during uni. A sentinel who'd been unbonded too long had been brought to the hospital, and it was like all of her senses had been going haywire.

The thought of seeing Sherlock like that was chilling.

"Sherlock!" John threw the door open without bothering to knock, half afraid of what he might find.

Sherlock turned around, his violin tucked underneath his chin, and raised an eyebrow. He was fully dressed in the sort of clothing he wore to the shop: tight jeans, a blue shirt that was only partially buttoned, though his feet were bare. His hair was as messy as ever, but he was clean-shaven and didn't _look_ like someone who was producing the kind of sounds that John had just been listening to.

"I wondered how long you were going to stand out there," he said, drawing the bowing across the strings with one last, jaw clenching squeal.

"You..." John took a deep breath to ease the pounding of his heart, because he'd never forgotten that Sherlock could hear that easily, and looked around. For someone who was supposedly at risk of falling into a zone, Sherlock didn't seem to be in pain. Or confused. Or in need of any help at all, really. 

He was beginning to have the strong suspicion that he might have fallen right into Irene's trap.

"Come in and close the door, then," Sherlock snapped, gently lifting his violin away from his chest. He knelt to place it back inside of its box, his fingers caressing the wood tenderly as he closed the lid. 

John obeyed just like he always did, though at least this time Sherlock didn't order him to strip down. "Irene told me -"

"Of course she did," Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes. "And you believed her every word, did you? Ever since the day we met, she's been trying to get me bonded. She lives under the misguided illusion that every sentinel in the world must want a bonded guide."

"Don't they?"

"Why on earth would you want to be tied down like that?" Sherlock demanded, spinning to face him. "Having to live your life at the whim of another person, it's like having another brother or Irene." He paused for a moment as though to contemplate the concept and then shuddered. "They're more than enough. I have no need for anyone else."

"You have a brother?" John asked, momentarily stuck on that bit on information.

"Yes." His tone of voice made it abundantly clear that there was no love lost between the siblings.

"Funny, I have a sister. So I know exactly how you feel." He forced a laugh that he didn't really feel and crossed the distance between them. Sherlock tensed as he came closer, but John stood his ground. "And if your relationship with Irene or your brother is anything similar, then I get how much of a pain they've probably been ever since we met. God knows that Harry spent about an hour this morning trying to talk me into coming here."

Sherlock scowled and started to say something, undoubtedly about how there was really no need for John to have made the journey if he didn't want to be there, but John didn't give him the chance. It turned out that all he really needed to settle the last of his nerves was to see Sherlock again, to have two minutes alone with this frustrating, aggravating, irreplaceable man and realize that this really was what he wanted.

That dark, curly hair was as soft as John had imagined. He couldn't help curling his fingers into the strands as he pulled Sherlock's head down to meet him. The initial brush of their lips was very chaste, mostly because Sherlock inhaled in surprise and tilted his head wrong, so that John ended up half-kissing his chin. He chuckled and Sherlock snorted.

The second kiss was better, after John gently tipped the head in his hands to a better angle and gave it another shot. Their mouths fit together perfectly, and he discovered quickly that it wasn't so different kissing a man as it was a woman. The feel of the skin beneath his fingertips was still warm and the lips against his were moving softly, searching, and he could feel arousal humming through him the longer they kissed.

"I want this," John breathed against Sherlock's mouth, making sure that he was looking into Sherlock's eyes. Wanting Sherlock to figure out that he was telling the honest to god truth here. "I'm sorry it took me so long to figure it out, but I do. If you think you can take the risk of being tied down, that is."

He shivered when Sherlock's fingers ghosted down his sides. It should've been impossible to feel that light touch through his coat and shirt, but he was certain he would have felt that heat no matter how many layers that he had on. Sherlock was staring at him with a thin line between his eyebrows, and then, like he was curious to see John's reaction, he boldly slipped his hand beneath John's shirt.

"Have you seen it?" he inquired.

"Seen what?"

"The tattoo."

"Oh. No." John knew he was blushing. Suddenly it seemed like a very childish way of handling things, to not even look in the mirror when he cleaned his tattoo.

Sherlock's smirk was feral. "Good."

This time the kiss felt a little like John was being devoured. Sherlock reeled him in, and evidently everything he'd said about not wanting to be bonded was just a farce to save face. Or possibly he had meant it right up until John kissed him. Or maybe it was a little bit of both.

But whatever the reason, it was obvious Sherlock was quickly getting over his hesitations about bonding.

"What is it?" John gasped out when he could speak again. It turned out Sherlock could hold his breath a lot longer than he could, and the depth and length of their kissing was leaving him light-headed.

"Something that had the possibility to make you angry," Sherlock admitted, his hands working quickly to divest John of his clothing. "I deduced long ago that you were attracted to me, but I wasn't certain that you would want... this."

He still didn't sound very certain, John realized. At some point his hands had fallen away from Sherlock's hair. Now, he cupped Sherlock's cheek. "Hey. Hey. I meant what I said. Irene and Harry didn't coerce me into coming here, if that's what you're thinking. I might have needed a pep talk, but this is all me. And before you even bother to ask, I'm not just here because you're an unbonded sentinel and I'm a guide who happens to be in need of one.

"I'm here because... fuck, Sherlock, you're amazing. I've always felt that way about you, right from the moment that I first saw your work. The things you can do, it's astounding. But it's not just that. You're clever and arrogant and so goddamn intelligent. I like how careful you are when you work and how honest you are. I like knowing that I managed to work my way in through your shields without even trying." His mouth quirked into a faint smile at Sherlock's pout.

"You did _not_ ," Sherlock muttered petulantly.

"Actually, I rather think I did," John said, pushing him backwards until Sherlock had no choice but to sit down on the sofa. John straddled him then, liking the strength in Sherlock's graceful hands when he reached up to steady him. 

"I told you, I deduced -"

Laughing, John pulled him into another deep kiss. Whatever Sherlock had or hadn't deduced was not up for debate. He ground down against Sherlock deliberately, relishing in the way that Sherlock gasped. He had a few suspicions about how much Sherlock knew about sex, not that it really mattered. 

When it came to bonding, to mating, it wouldn't be long before their most base, raw instincts took over.

He could see it happening in the dilation of Sherlock's pupils, the expression of lust and possessiveness painting across the man's face as his grip tightened on John's waist. John took the opportunity to rock their hips together again, moaning at the spark of pleasure. It had been a very long time since he'd done this, not since he'd broken up with Mary, and he wanted Sherlock to do something. Anything.

It was entirely possible he might have said that part out loud, because Sherlock growled deep in his chest, a low, rumbling sound that made John's blood burn, and stood up with no warning. John squeaked as he suddenly found himself in the air, his legs now wrapped around Sherlock's waist and strong arms gripping his waist to keep him from falling. Sherlock carried him into the bedroom, where they literally fell onto the bed together.

Clothing was ripped in their frenzy. John knew that much. He fulfilled a long hidden fantasy by grabbing Sherlock's shirt at the collar and wrenching it open, sending the straining buttons flying in all directions. That only seemed to excite Sherlock further, his eyes nearly black now as he stripped John naked himself this time.

The room was growing hazy around them and John could feel himself opening like he never had before. His shields weren't shattering or falling the way that he had feared they might; it was more like Sherlock was surging into him, finding every empty place that John hadn't even known existed. Those places made him ache, made him arch his back in frantic pleading.

And in return, he could feel the sense of unbalance in Sherlock. The way his senses were raging, overwhelming him, and he wanted to soothe that. He wanted to bring that control back to the man who needed it so desperately.

"Sherlock," he rasped, reaching up to again tangle his fingers in Sherlock's hair. "Sherlock, I'm ready."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure whether to apologize or bow.

It wasn't just sexual, but at the same time, as Sherlock dragged himself up so that he was resting between John's open thighs, it was. There was a raw, burning energy in the air that John would have been hard-pressed to put a name to, but he could feel it dampening the flesh at the back of his neck and knees, the inner skin of his elbows and wrists and the palms of his hands, his belly and cock and thighs. All the places where he most wanted Sherlock to touch and _know_ him.

Bonding with Bill hadn't been like this. Then again, that hadn't taken place in the middle of a bedroom with no one in hearing distance. The bonding between him and Bill had been carefully regulated, almost clinical. The setting had been a stark, white room with very little in terms of decoration or furniture. Though that was more for the safety of everyone than for aesthetic purposes, as there was always the chance of a sentinel losing control. If that happened, the more weapons at their disposal, the worse it could be.

There had been scientists around too, specialists in the field who monitored the two of them very closely. John remembered having to strip down to just his pants so that he could lay down on the floor, and then Bill had been brought in. Like John, he wore only the white boxers provided to them, and his jaw had been set in apprehension, or maybe nerves. He'd knelt over John and methodically smelled, touched, tasted, listened and looked at as much of John's body as he cared to. But it was a little like being at the doctor's office, like Bill was ticking items off a mental chart.

And through it all, John had forced himself to open up so that Bill could slide through his shields and vice versa. Being inside Bill's shields had been something of a blessing; he hadn't known or understood exactly how much pressure he was under from the outside world until all of that was switched off. For the first time in his life he'd understood exactly what it was like to be a normal person and not be badgered or tormented by the emotions of everyone around him.

In thanks, he'd turned his attention from maintaining his own shields - no longer necessary - to soothing the bits of Bill that had been fractured over the years. He could remember the unease that flowed through Bill when John touched him for the first time as a guide, like an uneasy animal shying away, and it had caused John to be more cautious than he would have otherwise. With anyone else he would've soothed the darkest parts of that psyche without worrying, but with Bill he stayed away, instinctively knowing those parts were not meant for him.

With Sherlock, it was completely different. Falling into Sherlock's shields was not like being cut off from the world. It was nothing like being a normal person, because there was no way a normal person could have experienced this level of bliss. It turned out that Sherlock had a John-shaped space carved out behind his shields where John fit perfectly, but the _connection_ between them blew John's level of understanding out of the water. It was impossible to figure out where he ended and Sherlock began.

His shields fell to pieces as Sherlock's fingers slipped between his buttocks, but John didn't panic. He couldn't. In the span of what felt like the two of them just breathing together, their hearts slowing to beat in perfect sync, his shields were absorbed into Sherlock's - or maybe it was the other way around, either way now it was the two of them against the world. Instead of separate, they were _together_.

Sherlock could see John's life, his childhood and decision to join the army, even the bonding with Bill. Much to John's surprise it didn't bother Sherlock as much as he would have guessed. If anything, the feelings drifting across their rapidly growing bond were that of smug superiority and pride that the bond between John and Bill had only been superficial. John rolled his eyes and dragged him down into a kiss, smothering Sherlock's laughter with his lips.

And John saw everything, too. As he draped himself across Sherlock's psyche and dripped into his very soul and soothed him, he saw Sherlock's childhood. Saw a little boy who didn't fit in anywhere, one who was scorned and mocked by his classmates. He watched that boy grow up into a man who loved to solve cases, but was drawn to the praise he received when he gifted someone with a new work of art. 

He saw his own tattoo, for the first time, and realized that Sherlock had given him the image of a black panther curled protectively around a koala bear.

Their spirit animals, of course. He huffed a laugh that was partly a gasp as Sherlock pressed a second finger into him, the presence of the first having been lost to the memories flooding his mind. It felt good to have a physical tether to the world when he felt as though he might float away, driven out of his mind on lust and the feeling of belonging. No wonder Sherlock had thought he might be angry, though. It was an awful risk to take.

"You're an idiot," he said, the words half a groan, arching up against him. Their bodies were pressed together but it wasn't enough, would never be enough. He would have torn Sherlock's chest open and climbed right into him if he could have.

"I deduced that we were compatible," said Sherlock, nipping at his bottom lip. "This seemed like the most logical course of action. In the meantime, I wanted to make it clear you were taken just in case."

"Git," John muttered, but found he couldn't argue as much as he wanted. Sentinels as a whole were a bloody possessive lot; it was written into their biological make-up so deeply that Sherlock probably couldn't help it. Not that he had tried. He dug his nails into the back of Sherlock's neck when a third finger slipped into him, moaning at the feeling of being so full on all levels: emotionally, spiritually, and physically.

Still, he wanted more.

"Greedy," Sherlock whispered, not in chastisement but approvingly. He eased his fingers out and quickly positioned his cockhead, pushing inside. There was no pain; John's body opened as eagerly as any woman's would have, welcoming him. He bottomed out in one slow, deep thrust that stole the breath from John's lungs and left him gasping uselessly.

He opened eyes that he wasn't aware he had closed and stared up at Sherlock's face. They were both sweating, and Sherlock was flushed with arousal. His eyes were bright and roved up and down John's body like he wasn't sure where he should look. His hands were everywhere, sliding over as much flesh as he could reach, touching but paying no more attention to John's cock and balls than he did to his hips or shoulders. And then he dipped his head, dragging his tongue across John's belly and up to one of his nipples while inhaling deeply.

It was a little like being consumed.

John moaned softly, rocking his hips into the slow rhythm that Sherlock had created. There was no urgency here, despite the lust thrumming under his skin. They both knew that they would have this for the rest of their existence, and that nothing was more important than what was happening right at this moment. He couldn't help reaching up and sliding his palms down Sherlock's back, relishing in each inch of skin his fingertips caressed. Perhaps he couldn't catalogue Sherlock the same way, but he intended to imprint as much of Sherlock into his senses as possible. He wanted to be drunk on this incredible man.

Something sweet and low caught his attention, a vibration that John felt right down to his core. His head fell to the side and he only just stopped himself from crying out in surprise when he spotted a koala bear sitting on the bed right beside him. The animal blinked at him with slow, wise eyes. Right behind it, paws perched on the bed, was a beautiful black panther. That was the sound that John was hearing: the panther was so pleased at their coupling that it was purring. 

Sherlock's movement paused as he came to rest inside of John, his attention also caught by the presence of their unexpected visitors. "I saw them together in a dream after I did your first tattoo," he confessed, his voice very quiet. "It was after you came to work in the shop, but before... I wasn't sure what it meant. They were in the forest together."

"I've seen mine once or twice, but never yours," John admitted, a little upset that he had never received the same visitation from the two animals. He frowned at the panther, and the animal cocked its head as though to say, 'even if I had come, you would not have been ready'. Which yeah, okay, possibly was a point in its favour, but that didn't mean John had to like it. 

"It was very peaceful," Sherlock said unexpectedly, and John was struck by the wave of longing that went through his mate. He leaned up and kissed Sherlock, gently at first and then with increasing passion. There was no need for Sherlock to ever feel that way again.

Sherlock groaned against his mouth and began to fuck him again. He gripped John's knees and pulled them up a little further around his waist, and the change in angle was just enough for his cock to strike John's prostate. He yelped and dug his nails into Sherlock's back, unconsciously dragging them down to leave bright red streaks, and that only served to make Sherlock's hips snap that much harder into him.

Sweat was rolling down Sherlock's cheek and John caught it, impulsively, with his tongue. The sentinel groaned again and, unexpectedly, flipped them both over. John blinked, caught by surprise at the sudden change, and looked down. Sherlock was breathing hard, but that wasn't his reason for the flip: now that he was stationary, he could devote more time to running his fingers over every inch of John's body. It seemed as though he wanted John to do the work so that he could explore. John smirked. That was fine with him.

Mindful of his leg, he put his hands on the bed and slowly began lifting himself up and down, fucking himself on Sherlock's cock. He couldn't go as fast as he liked without provoking flashes of pain from his protesting body, but it was enough to make them both feel good. Really good. John was moaning almost non-stop now, and the noises would have been embarrassing if it wasn't for the way that Sherlock so clearly revelled in them. With his eyes half-closed like that, staring up at John in awe, Sherlock looked like the one who was tipsy. 

"Oh god," John groaned, his thighs burning from the exertion. But he didn't want to stop. He wrapped a hand around his cock, trying to pump in time with his movements, but to his chagrin he wasn't strong enough to support himself with just one hand. "Sherlock... _please_."

"John." Sherlock's voice was deep and raspy, barely audible over the slapping of skin and the thick squishing of lube. His hand joined John's, slowly sliding up and down the shaft. John just gasped for breath and tried to show Sherlock the way he liked it best before letting his hand fall back to the bed, caught up in the pleasure that was hitting from all sides in an overload.

He wasn't empty anymore, because Sherlock had filled up all of the empty places inside of him, and that was more than enough to tip John over the edge. He let himself drop down one last time and came with a nearly soundless cry, just the wheezing of Sherlock's name as his body trembled uncontrollably and he spurted over Sherlock's hand and belly. Sherlock's eyes were wide and he didn't look away from John once, drinking in the sight like he'd finally seen heaven. 

John collapsed against him, shaking, and it was then that Sherlock lifted his hand and tasted John's come. His hips stuttered just once and then he was coming too, still sucking on his fingers, frantically licking every last trace of John from his hand. It was the most erotic thing that John had ever witnessed.

Somehow John managed to summon up the strength to slide onto the bed next to him. Their spirit animals were gone, vanished at some point John couldn't remember, and that was fine with him. He curled into Sherlock, trying to make sure that as much of their naked flesh was touching as possible. And that was okay, too, because Sherlock was doing the exact same thing.


	14. Chapter 14

The sensation of a warm, wet washcloth moving across his body woke John from the best night's sleep that he'd had in months - or maybe ever. Instead of opening his eyes right away, he remained where he was: stretched out on his belly, his left arm tucked down around his side and his right arm up by his face, and enjoyed the somewhat novel sensation of being cared for by his sentinel. The last time anyone had done something like this, he'd been in the hospital and he was being given a sponge bath by a nurse because he was incapable of getting out of bed to shower.

He vastly preferred this.

A gust of breath over his left shoulder was the only warning he received before Sherlock's lips brushed across the flesh, notably over the puckered skin where his tattoo had once been. John grimaced, his enjoyment of the situation fading away, and rolled over onto his side. When he opened his eyes, he saw that a naked Sherlock was kneeling beside him on the bed. There was a bowl of water on the nightstand, into which Sherlock let the cloth fall. He sat back on his heels and they just looked at each other for a few minutes.

Finally, John broke the comfortable silence by speaking. "It happened while I was in Afghanistan. I was a doctor, so I wasn't supposed to see any fighting. You can see how well that turned out." He spoke a little more bitterly than he really meant to. "It seems that the enemy really doesn't care whether you've got a gun in your hands or not."

"It bothers you."

"Yeah," John said simply, relieved that those words seemed to be just a statement and not a question. Even with Sherlock, and the warm understanding he could feel through their bond, he didn't feel like he was ready to talk about it. Maybe what had happened to him had led him to his sentinel, and maybe he never would've ended up here if he hadn't been wounded. So technically, when he thought about where he might have been in comparison - still overseas with Bill - he probably should have been grateful. But he just wasn't at a point where he could think of being gunned down as anything but a curse.

"I could do your tattoo again," Sherlock said, as though that were the only reason for John to resent having been shot. "On the opposite shoulder, if you want."

John raised an eyebrow at the offer. He knew for a fact that Sherlock and Irene _never_ replicated tattoos. It was one of their unspoken rules, and every person who came into the shop wanting that was told no. Every tattoo that the both of them did was completely unique, even if it was just the tiniest of details. "I thought you didn't do that."

"If it's what you wanted, I would."

Touched, he sat up and swayed forward to wrap an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. His body ached a little bit, but for once it wasn't his shoulder or leg. This was the ache that came from having had truly excellent sex, and he'd missed it. "Thank you, but no. I like the new tattoo that you gave me a lot more, and even though I regret having lost old one, I'd rather you gave me something new."

Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "So does that mean you'll let me give you another one?"

"We'll talk," John said wryly. After the last one, he could all too easily imagine ending with 'property of Sherlock Holmes' etched across his backside. Even if Sherlock was the only one who would ever see it, that wasn't exactly the sort of statement that John was looking to make.

Sherlock smirked, like he knew exactly what was going though John's head, and started to speak. Just as suddenly, he stopped. He cocked his head and listened intently, then groaned. "Oh no."

"What?"

"Irene," Sherlock said in the long-suffering way of brothers with sisters everywhere. John stared at him. Sure enough, less than a minute later he heard the sound of the flat door opening. Familiar voices spilled into the room. Sherlock groaned again and collapsed sideways onto the bed, rolling over so that his back was to the door. He groped around for a blanket and then yanked it up over his head.

Like that would really be enough to stop Irene Adler.

John shook his head, though he wasn't really in a position to say anything since he had pretty much done the exact same thing to hide from Harry not that long ago. Instead of joining Sherlock, he got up and stretched before pulling on a clean pair of Sherlock's boxers and his own jeans - which had made it through their mating in decent condition, though his boxers were nothing more than scraps and his shirt hadn't fared very well either. He compromised by grabbing one of Sherlock's robes and hauling it on as he walked out of the bedroom.

The first person he saw was Harry. She took one look at his face and let out an excited screech before yanking him into a huge hug. "I knew you could do it!"

He stumbled a little in surprise but recovered, patting her back as Irene slipped by them and disappeared into the bedroom - no doubt to roust poor Sherlock. John almost felt sorry for him. "That's sweet, but you really didn't have to show up here so early the morning afterwards. Do I even want to know what you were hoping to find?"

"I just wanted to see if you were making good use of that present I gave you before you left," Harry said.

"Present?" John repeated, bewildered.

"You know, the blue silk kni-"

" _Jesus_ , Harry!" Mortified, he clapped a hand over her mouth before she could finish that sentence and thereby make sure that he could never show his face to Sherlock or Irene ever again. Harry just started cackling like a loon, her eyes bright with amusement.

"Oh come on," she said, her voice muffled by his hand. "I bet Sherlock would agree with me."

"I will kill you," John growled.

"Lestrade is a detective inspector and he likes me," Harry said smugly, finally squirming out of his grasp. "He'd bring you in for murder."

"Yeah, well, my sentinel is the one who helps him solve those murders sometimes, so I bet he could help me hide your body in a place where no one will find it," John muttered, his blush only intensifying when Sherlock and Irene stepped out of the bedroom. Judging by Irene's poorly hidden smile and Sherlock's open interest as he looked John over in a manner that was far too speculative, both of them had overheard the conversation. Bloody sentinels and their bloody excellent hearing.

He turned away and shuffled into the kitchen, needing a few seconds to regroup. Sherlock followed him, one arm sliding around John's waist in a move that was far more possessive than he was expecting. But then again, he felt a little silly for thinking that Sherlock would continue to treat him the same way. They were newly bonded and there was another sentinel in the flat. Regardless of the fact that Irene was one of Sherlock's closest friends and that she was bonded herself, Sherlock's instincts no doubt saw her as something of a threat. Bill had been the exact same way at first.

"Congratulations are in order," Irene said as she and Harry followed them a moment later, though John noticed she had apparently picked up on the unspoken warning because she kept her distance. "I know that the two of you need some time to yourselves, and I apologize for bursting in on you like this. But I needed to talk to Sherlock about some of his appointments and see what he wants to do with them."

"Cancel them," Sherlock said, like he wasn't sure why Irene even bothered to ask.

"Sherlock," John chided, twisting so that he could face his sentinel without having to crane his neck. _His_ sentinel. The words gave him a little thrill. "Some of those people have been waiting for months to get an appointment with you. They've got travel plans and everything."

Irene looked a little surprised. "I have to admit, John, I thought you would feel differently. Having been bonded before, I thought you in particular wouldn't want to be parted from Sherlock any longer than necessary during the first couple of weeks."

It was customary for newly bonded sentinels and guides to have at least one week, if not two or even three, to themselves during which no one was supposed to bother them. It was believed that limiting outside influences during those first few days helped to strengthen the bond, and in a case like theirs where they were also mated, having that time also helped to reduce the risk of Sherlock going into a rage and killing someone for being around his guide. 

However, this wasn't the first time John had dealt with this. He and Bill hadn't been granted that time, either. The army had been too anxious for the support of more sentinels in Afghanistan. Granted, his bond with Sherlock was a hell of a lot stronger, but still. He'd rather sacrifice a little time in bed learning to get to know each other if it meant not hurting what Sherlock loved to do. He smiled at Irene. "I didn't say I'd be going anywhere. I can stay in the room with Sherlock while he's doing his work, and then the two of us can just leave afterwards. You can cancel as many appointments as you can, but the ones that can't, it's okay."

Sherlock's fingers tightened on his waist, and John felt the warm flash of pleasure and surprise from his sentinel. He squeezed back, letting Sherlock know that it was okay. He wasn't exactly thrilled that this time wouldn't belong solely to them, but Sherlock loved tattooing too much to risk letting his reputation be hurt. 

"Besides," he added, "we can always make up for that time later."

"Yeah you can," Harry said with a grin that spelled trouble. John pointed a warning finger at her, not wanting to find any more surprises waiting for him when he got home.

Of course, that wouldn't be his home for much longer. He already hated the thought of leaving Sherlock for even a few minutes. There was no way he would be able to stay away for nights at a time. The thought of moving again was almost overwhelming, but it would have to be done - and soon. At least he wouldn't have to deal with a landlord, and it seemed like Sherlock had plenty of space for two people to live in. If he wanted that.

Would he want that?

"I'll let you know the details," Irene said to Sherlock, wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulders. "And I'll see what I can do to schedule you a honeymoon in the next couple of months." She was smirking.

"Get out," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

Irene just laughed at him as they walked out, and without Harry and Irene the flat suddenly felt empty. Or maybe it was too full of the questions spinning through John's head. He'd never had to deal with this part of it before. He and Bill hadn't ever talked about what they would do if they both returned to London. Bill, like all soldiers who were married or had partners, had spoken a lot about his wife, but John had never got the impression that there would be space for him in that house.

"John?"

He blinked, looking up into Sherlock's eyes, and sank gratefully into the warm hug that was offered to him. Sherlock pulled him close, sliding a hand under the robe so that he could curve his fingers across the bare expanse of John's back. 

"Sorry," he mumbled into Sherlock's chest. "I just... it's a lot."

"I know." Sherlock sounded hesitant as he experimentally pushed feelings of comfort across the bond. "We can move, if you want."

With just that simple sentence, John relaxed, knowing that everything would work out just fine. He closed his eyes and revelled in the feeling of his sentinel. "You know what? I think I like it here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So a lot of people asked about sentinelverse while I was writing this story. I was even asked if there was a primer or something like that. Short answer, no, there's not. Believe me, I looked. There are a few pages like [this one](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Sentinel#Tropes) that offer vague details on the concept. To really understand it, you would have to delve into the original tv series and the fandom surrounding it - and even then a large portion of it is likely fanlore and, as such, conflicting. 
> 
> What I've written here is compiled from what little research I've found, other fanfiction, and what makes sense to me as a writer who really likes her soul bonds.

**Author's Note:**

> Please come visit me on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/).


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